


The Ink That Flows From Within The Heart

by Sherwings



Category: 10th Kingdom, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst, Eventual Sex, Falling In Love, Fluff, Friendship, Love, M/M, Minor Character Death, Sibling Bonding, Some Humor, True Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-06
Updated: 2013-11-06
Packaged: 2017-12-28 14:02:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 49,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/992809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherwings/pseuds/Sherwings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson is an ex army doctor recently returned home from Afghanistan. He eventually receives a phone call from his sister Harry inviting him to stay with her for a while...in New York City.<br/>A few months after arriving, bizarre events transpire that bring John and Harry (led by a mysterious Dog) through a magical portal in Central Park and into the world of the 9 Kingdoms. A Land of fairy tales, magic, trolls, an Evil Queen, magic mirrors and eventually, talking mushrooms! All manner of danger and adventure. They eventually join together with a Half-Wolf named Sherlock Holmes. John and Harry want to return home and together the four of them embark upon a journey to do just that, but does Sherlock have other reasons for being with them? Whether it's destiny or chance, more people and events intervene that eventually changes their journey into one larger than any of them ever thought possible. A journey essential to the survival of the 9 Kingdoms, a journey that will change everything and everyone. A journey that started out with the sole purpose of returning home...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! This is my first fan fic in either of these fandoms...actually, it's my first fan fic ever! Though I have written a lot of my own original work. So hopefully this won't be too bad :P.  
> Anyway, BBC Sherlock is one of my absolute favourite TV Shows and I love The 10th Kingdom miniseries. One day I had a crazy thought to combine the two, anyone who has seen The 10th Kingdom knows I have set myself up for quite the challenge...I promised myself I wouldn't do a WIP, and I have personal reasons for that, but I know it will help me finish quicker to post chapter by chapter. I don't know how long it'll take me to finish, I predict this will be quite the beast in terms of length! But rest assured I will not leave it unfinished! Obviously some things are going to be changed around, that's what happens when you go AU in a particular world and combine two entirely different universes! I will try my best though to keep our beloved characters mostly themselves, bear with me if they waver though. And I'm going to be keeping to the main story line of the 10th Kingdom, but I will eventually include some of my own original plot bits too :). Oh, and a note about the rating. I'm giving it a Mature rating for now (I might ramp that up a notch, depending on how detailed I decide to be), because I know for sure intimate relations will eventually happen later in the story. The title is inspired by an anonymous quote I found online a while ago, and I'm not sure if I'm going to keep it...but I do like it, so we'll see :). The line itself has nothing to do with Sherlock or The 10th Kingdom, to me it's metaphorical. So far, the work itself is unbetad so all mistakes that sneak their way in are mine! 
> 
> I don't own BBC Sherlock or The 10th Kingdom! All credit goes to the writers and makers of both! :)
> 
> A special thanks to all the folk on the Sherlock fan forum I'm a part of! I know I initially said I wasn't going to write an AU...well, my mind decided it would be hilarious to veer completely of course into another dimension :D. I've still got ideas though for some other, non-AU Sherlock fan fics. But that's for the future, for now...here's the story! The first chapter is from the first person perspective (but the rest of the story will be third person) and more of a introduction to some of the characters, a kickstart to the story, the meat begins in Chapter 2. :)

      **Chapter 1**  

     

      My Name is John Watson, and I am an army doctor recently relieved – permanently, due to injury - from the army and invalided back home to London; I have been living in a studio flat ever since. It is the emptiest place I have ever lived in, has very little except for the traditional furniture (bed, a small wardrobe, plain wooden desk with a solitary drawer in which my gun rests, sofa, kitchen appliances, telly etc.) and one or two boxes of personal items I have not fully unpacked; even after living here for 4 months. 

      It is not the bare walls and very little furniture that makes all this around me feel empty though, it is empty because it feels like the physical manifestation of what my life has become. A sedentary, repetitive, painful existence without the adrenaline intense and camaraderie filled life of what I had before...this. I may have come out of that life with a painful wound and a limp, but there I had purpose. And though I am haunted every night by the stench of blood, stinging desert dust, persistent gunfire, the sounds of hundreds of men, women and children in pain, my own screams tossed into the mix with the memory of white hot shock and pain in my left shoulder, I can’t regret my time in Afghanistan. Because even though it was one of the most painful experiences in my life, if I’m to be honest I had never felt more alive.

     And now here I am, barely getting by – not even getting by, really - on an army pension, unable to find work, wasting away my time by contemplating my deteriorating life in this fucking depressing flat.

    “Damn it.” I say to myself, banging my head once against the back of the sofa I am currently sitting on. I love London, but I can’t stay here much longer on my own like this, bills are piling up and pretty soon I won’t be able to afford the rent here. “What am I going to do?” I take a deep breath, secretly wishing for a bloody miracle but not truly believing I’ll get one.

     Just then, I hear the ringing and vibration of my mobile phone going off in my pocket. I pull it out and glance at the screen ‘Call from Harry’. I steel myself and try to dispel the uneasiness forming as I listen to the ringing, at this moment I am unable to decide whether to answer or not. My sister and I have never gotten along that well; we’ve barely spoken since her move back to New York City, and even less so after her divorce from Clara. I’m still not sure who’s more at fault there.

     I was born in New York. Harry moved there with father from London, England when she was 5. Harry and I have different mothers, hers died in childbirth and mine...well, mine our father met in New York. She left without a word when I was 7yrs old. My right hand clenches involuntary at the memory. 

     I left New York and moved to London as soon as I was old enough, became a doctor there, lived for a while and then joined the army. I sigh deeply. Why? Why start thinking about all that now? Is this what my life is now? Contemplating my worst memories and feeling hopeless on the future? Fuck I hate what my life has become.

     Nothing to do now but soldier on, that I know I can do.

     Another shrill ring brings me out of my reverie and back to the present reality of Harry calling me. I take a deep breath and answer the phone.

    “Hi Harry.” I say.

    “Hey little brother!” The slightly inebriated voice of my older sister is very loud in my ear; I jerk the phone away minutely. “This is the first time you’ve answered the phone in almost four weeks, I’ve been trying to reach you! Why haven’t you got back to me? Would it have been _that_ hard to at least send me an email?”

     Harry sounds very frustrated, and more than a little irritated. I try to gather my patience before responding.

     “I’ve been busy Harry.” If only.

     “Bullshit, and you know it.”

     She must’ve only had one or two drinks; she’s rarely this intuitive when drunk. I grip the handle of my cane tightly with my free hand.

     “How are you Harry?” I say in an attempt to steer the conversation in another direction, Harry must want something; she hardly ever calls unless she does.

     “Oh you know, the same.” She says.

      I can hear the faint sound of a cork being popped. Ugh, damn it Harry! Why must you do this to yourself?!

      My hand around the handle of the cane clenches and I try to reign in my anger.

      “I wish you wouldn’t do that.” I say, my tone clipped.

      Harry scoffs. “What? Drink on the phone while I’m talking to you? In that case I’ll wait until we’re done.”

     “You know what I mean.” And she does to; we’ve had this conversation for the past 10yrs. And no matter how many times we talk – well, I talk and she deflects and yells – nothing ever comes of it, nothing I’ve ever said or done has helped her stopped drinking. I breathe deeply; it would be lying to say there isn’t some guilt there.

     “Yeah, I do.”

     My brow furrows in confusion, Harry sounded almost...resigned - maybe a little sad? - When she said that. I hear my sister take a deep breath and the sound of a bottle being put down. For the first time I register something else in her tone.

    “What’s wrong Harry?” I ask, concern I always feel for her – even through the anger – dripping into my voice.

    “I’m worried about you.” Harry has always had a talent for straightforward bluntness.

     I can’t help but laugh, not out of disbelief – well, maybe a little – bust mostly out of surprise.

    “Hey! I really am!”

     I smile.

    “I know Harry, I know. Sorry, I was just....” I trail off, unsure how to finish that sentence.

    “Bowled over?” The smirk in Harry’s voice is obvious.

    I laugh again.

   “Something like that, even more so now. Jesus Harry! Are we actually laughing together? This could almost be considered getting along!” I let go of my cane and slap my hand down on my thigh.

    Harry laughs, and I can’t help but smile wider at the sound...it’s been years since I’ve heard my sister laugh, really laugh. Not laughter out of spite or mocking, but out of genuine amusement, especially when she’s drunk. She’s obviously not so intoxicated now, but enough that I can still notice. Harry has always been a mean drunk, and that makes this all the more incredulous.

    Harry laughs too. “Hah! Perish the thought!”

    I laugh once more and exhale loudly. I really needed that, to laugh. Even though I suppose we really shouldn’t be laughing over something this serious...in the back of my head I can hear words being distantly spoken to me – _“My dear boy! To laugh in seriousness is the best time to laugh! It is when laughter is needed most.”_ – Of course there are certain situations when that isn’t true and definitely not appropriate, but I remember these words our father said to me very clearly, it was the day he died.

    “Seriously Harry, what’s going on? Now you have me worried, and what’s this about you being worried for me?” I grip my cane tightly, again.

    “Well, other than the fact you’ve been avoiding talking to me for the past month, the last time we talked I was sober enough to hear that my little brother was in trouble.” Harry says, not slurring a word. I narrow my eyes slightly, waiting for her to continue. It’s not that I don’t believe her, but this is almost out of character for her. In spite of everything, I do love my sister. It’s just that for as long as I can remember she’s always been predominately selfish, showing typical older sibling protectiveness once in a while but never explicitly saying anything. We were just...distant from each other as children, and more so as teens.

     I hear Harry take a deep breath. “Clara and I spoke on the phone, just over a month ago.” Ah. That’s a surprise. “The circumstances aren’t important, but somehow we ended up talking almost...friendly again. And she asked how you were, concerned about you. I told her about your situation, and she asked some questions, I mostly answered and then she started asking questions I didn’t know answers to and then...I got to thinking. And I must’ve had one or two to drink after that - ” I raise an eyebrow. “- alright, maybe four or five, but the next day I couldn’t stop thinking about something she said. And that’s when I tried calling you.”

    If anything I’m more confused now, where is Harry going with this?

   “Just tell me what’s going on Harry.” I say as gently as possible, trying not to sound too frustrated. This hasn’t been the best day, none of them have, and even though Harry and I have managed to make it a full five minutes without getting into a fight, I’d really rather end this call as soon as possible. Though we’ve laughed together, I’m doubtful that’ll last and due to the direction this appears to be heading something tells me a row is looming on the horizon and it would be nice to leave the conversation now and have at least one memory of my sister – mostly sober – that didn’t end in anger.

   “I want you to come live with me in New York, just for a little while.”

    My eyes widen and shock nearly causes me to drop my phone.

    “What..?” My voice is nearly breathless.

    “I. Want. You. To. Come. Live. With. Me.” Harry said slowly.

    “I – Why?” I ask, feeling very surprised and more than a little puzzled.

    Harry sighs.

    “You’re going to make me say it, aren’t you?” Harry sighs. “You’re my brother; me and you are all the family we have left. Come and stay with me for a while. I know...I know my drinking upsets you, I’m...I’m going to try and get some help, I know I have to, I know that, and...and I find myself...wanting you around, and I figure after everything that’s happened to you...you might be going through your own shit as well, maybe we could...help each other?”

    Well, I wasn’t expecting that. This...this is Harry right? I take the phone away from my ear and look at the number. Yeah, definitely Harry. My face must be the epitome of bewilderment right now.

   I shouldn’t agree to this, this can’t be healthy, there’s still too much history between Harry and I. This will only end in disaster. And yet...damn, _what on earth_ did Clara say to her?

   I take a deep breath, ready to give my answer. I must be desperate for any kind of change if I’m seriously considering this, but what else can I do? There are as many pros to this choice as there are cons, and I’m sick of what my life has become. And Harry...she has never said once, earnestly, that she would try to stop drinking. Of course I know it won’t be as simple as that, this will be a whole other kind of minefield. But I’ve been offering help to her for as long as this has been a problem, I can’t seem to help myself...but maybe, maybe I can help her, even by just being there. Help each other, she said. I squirm a little, feeling uncomfortable. I doubt there is anything she can do for me, maybe she can’t. Either way, I guess I’ll see what happens.

 

***

 

_5 months later..._

 

   I live on the edge of the forest. Well kind of, my sister Harry (and now me, though temporarily) lives in an apartment building on the edge of Central Park in New York City. So far, this has been my favourite part of living here again. Even though many of my happy early childhood memories involve my mother and me in Central Park, they’re all now soured by time and the pains of being abandoned when I was a child. I was never that close with my father, Harry was. But I was close with my mother, though we were so different. I could never – still don’t, but I tell myself over and over again that I have learned to accept that I may never know – figure out why she left. It wasn’t until I was a teenager that I finally started to feel angry, up until that point...I guess I just didn’t understand that she was never coming back.

   Central Park, despite the soured memories, the place continues to contain a manner of peace for me...And during these past 5 months the acres of Park have helped me learn to reconcile with the fact that nothing exciting or particularly stimulating may ever happen to me again, and that’s ok. I tell myself it’s ok. It has to be, because what else can I do? I refuse to _dwell_ on the fact that nothing will change, best to just _accept_ it (my London therapist would be proud). And soldier on, the least an ex-army doctor such as I can do. I know eventually I’ll be able to work at a clinic, maybe even a hospital. At least then I’d be useful and feel some sense of purpose again, but...that is a long ways off.

   It’s still strange, being here after all this time. I was 18 when I left, that was 20yrs ago. I can’t deny it feels strange to be living here again, like walking into the past...and I’m still not entirely sure how to feel about all this, there are parts of my past I would rather not relive. Surprisingly, the day my mother left has always been fuzzy, but the day after...is permanently, painfully inked in my mind.

   I sigh deeply as my thoughts continue; right now I’m leaning on the wall of the small kitchen; against the single window, and gazing out on the Park. My love of visiting Central Park, taking short walks through it, peripherally noticing and remembering places I spent time in as a kid, is as much a painful thing as it is a peaceful refuge. I am grateful for all the beauty it contains, yet curse whenever an unbidden memory of my mother spoils it. I am grateful for the moments of peace I feel walking along the paths (moments that are easing my nightmares, and I am less sensitive to triggers that would’ve normally had me reaching for my gun or would induce a panic attack), yet curse the monotonous routine (maybe if I could work a job, it’d be different, but I can’t. I don’t know how long I’m staying, and because of that I would be too unpredictable for anyone to hire, let alone my leg and intermittent tremor in my left hand) ...My body and mind long for a more energetic life, yearn for the chance to be a doctor again. Right now, everything feels like a paradox of sorts, I’ve stopped trying to understand it...truthfully; all of this just gives me a headache.

    As I continue my gaze along the border of the park, my eyes settle briefly on the Grill my sister works at. I know normally no one, _no one_ ; on a waitress salary could afford an apartment on the edge of Central Park. However Harry got a little money in the divorce, and unlike me her debts are minimal, so much to her luck she’s able to afford this little corner apartment. We also lived in a place close to the Park when we were growing up. The exact building is well out of my line of sight at the moment, and it is one of the places I have studiously avoided walking past.

   As for Harry and I...things really could be much worse; certainly we’re getting along much better than I thought we would and that’s something I’m grateful for. Nothing is ever easy though. At least she seems to be genuinely committed to not drinking; I haven’t seen her open a bottle or can since I parked myself in her spare bedroom 5 months ago.

   I move my gaze away from the window and focus my eyes now on the hot, milky tea in the mug I’m holding. My thoughts come to a standstill – thank god – for now.

   “Tea is better in England.” I huff, and then smile softly. Spoken like a true British man, even though I was born American and have only the mildest of British accents.

   I take a sip of the hot tea and relish the comforting flavour.

 

                _Meanwhile, in the 4 th Kingdom..._

 

    “LET ME OUT OF HERE!” I scream.

 

   Cold. Wet. Stone...Crushing darkness. I can feel such potent energy coursing through my body, begging for release. Trapped. Can’t run. Must run! Must...must...I scream again and bang my fists against my cell door, though I know the fruitlessness of the endeavour. Its night time and that only makes this tedious, mind crushing entrapment all the worse. Under normal circumstances I would embrace the night, the night is when the moon is visible...Ah. The moon...

   At this precise moment I can feel the light of the moon break through cracks in the cloudy sky. It’s shining soothingly through the singular, barred window of my cell...the moonlight taunts me, a painful reminder that I am trapped. The moon is the only thing in this world I find beautiful, beyond beautiful...it’s very essence, the cold, enveloping light fills me with such completeness I want to howl. And I do, every time. The ivory ball is singing to me, and I want to sing back. Run...run, run under its gaze, the way my genes tell me too.

   I throw myself from the wall near the cell door and into the wall the window is situated on. I grasp the bars like a man drowning and press my face up against them with such desperate need...Pathetic, but I can’t help it. I’m a wolf, a half-wolf.

   I look up at the moon, daring it to shine brighter...daring it to break free of its cloud prison - reminiscent of my own – and shine on me. Please, please, please...I never beg, but now I beg for mercy. Mercy from whom I do not know, asking – let alone begging – for mercy from the cruel, idiotic humans who run this place is laughable. I don’t deny I have a partially cruel nature myself, but this...this...I would never do this, especially not to one of my kind, and definitely not for this long. It must be months now.

   My breathing is turning heavy, sweat beads on my forehead; I grip the bars on the window tighter and take the deepest breath of outside air I can manage. I hear horrid whimpering all around me, as I turn my head to see if something has magically appeared in my cell I realize the whimpering is coming from me. Pathetic...Desperate.

   Just then, the clouds break and the moon (not full) is fully exposed. Yes! Yes...yes...A wide grin plasters itself on my face; I push my face even harder against the bars. My legs itch even more to run. My smile immediately falls as I am reminded of why I can’t run....rage, pure rage fills my limbs. I’m shaking with it.

   “LET ME OUT OF HERE PLEASE! ” I scream again and again. And then I fix my eyes on the moon...and howl, a watery drop falling from my eye. If a tear falls down my face, it is the least of my problems. I’ll go insane, soon the name Sherlock Holmes will cease to exist, surely if I am here much longer...I’ll turn into a constantly screaming, howling madwolf, my mind will atrophy...nowhere to bound, nowhere to run, nowhere... _to be_.

   I continue howling as I let myself slide down the wall; I curl up on myself and collapse onto the floor.  As my head rests on my knees, tears fall with unwanted – yet expected – force.

  How am I going to get out of here?  


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I didn't expect to be back here so soon, I just felt the writing bug and couldn't stop...I guess this is what happens when that occurs, another chapter is born! xD  
> Just a brief note on a few things. First, I have changed the coronation age to 25 to better suit the story. And I am including a great deal of the dialogue from The 10th Kingdom miniseries (I will most likely include some of my favourite Sherlock dialogue as well a bit later), making some changes of course and adding my own original dialogue as well.  
> Anyway, here's the second chapter! Hope you enjoy and thanks for reading! :D

**Chapter 2**

 

_The 4 th Kingdom; Outer Provence’s; 6:02 pm._

 

   The 4th Kingdom is the third largest territory in all the 9 kingdoms. The kingdom will soon be celebrating the Coronation of a new King, the grandson of the late Snow White; Prince Mycroft.

    Mycroft’s parents, the Late King and Queen (Siger and Violet) were both murdered. His mother when Mycroft was 17 and his father when Mycroft turned 20. The same person who killed his mother and father tried to end his life as well shortly after the death of his father, and now this same person is currently being housed at The Snow White Memorial Prison. Mycroft has always found it an oddity that a prison, of all places, should be named after his beloved Grandmother; though he has never said this to anyone, it’s nothing he can change, at least not yet.

    Right now the young, arrogant Prince finds himself with his assistant – Anthea, a woman 10 yrs his senior and as far as he’s concerned, indispensible to him – travelling along a pale, dirt road in the Royal Carriage through the Outer Provence’s of his soon-to-be Kingdom.

    Mycroft casually glances out the carriage window at the surrounding green countryside. With a mildly disgusted twist to his expression, his whole posture is rigid and severe, despite the jostling of the horse drawn carriage. Right now he is the very model of someone that is deeply uncomfortable.

   “Where exactly are we going?” The Prince asks, trying _not_ to let his disdain for the area in which he finds himself show in his voice. He is to be King after all, whatever his personal feelings a certain amount of diplomacy and decorum is required.

    “To Beantown in the southwest corner of your Kingdom, sir. You are accepting the throne that the craftsmen there have made for your Coronation.” Anthea replies, without lifting her gaze from the book she is currently reading. Mycroft wonders how on earth she can read with the carriage retching over rocks every few feet.

    He once again glances out carriage window.

    “Is it much further?” He casually leans back against the deep read cushion of the interior.

     Anthea gently folds down a page corner and close her book, focusing now on her future King. “Not greatly. However, first we must make a brief stop at the Snow White Memorial prison.” She says, her eyes narrowed in worry; clearly examining his face for signs of distress.

    Mycroft gives no reaction to the news, if it weren’t for his breathing suddenly growing the slightest bit more rapid, you’d think he didn’t hear her at all. Very few things ruffle The Prince, knowing that he’ll soon have to visit the place his step-mother is forever imprisoned is one of those few things.

    Still, all Mycroft does in response is a slight nod and a short – “I see.” In the distance Mycroft can see the shingled roofs and fenced in fields of a small, nearby farm village. He conjures up an inward expression of contempt; slight twisted lip, scrunched up nose; completely contrary to his outward expression; one of calm detachment. “The People in this area are so common.” He doesn’t have to say he hates that, Anthea knows him well enough to be aware of that fact.

   She ignores his last comment. “Your step-mother has applied for parole again, which we will of course turn down.”

   Mycroft inwardly sighs in relief. “Good.”

   “This diversion to the prison is merely a routine courtesy visit, won’t take more than an hour of our time.” Anthea nods and re-opens her book.

    _I hope so_ , Mycroft thinks, _I don’t want to spend a minute there longer than necessary_.

 

 

_The 4 th Kingdom, Snow White Memorial Prison; 6:03pm._

 

 

    A human-sized cage; hung upon a tall, dead tree swings gently as a Vulture continues biting and tearing at the rotting flesh within; a delightful and welcome feast for the bird, but a disgusting sight to the figure watching the spectacle from below.

   The Troll King can’t help but gag; he ignores this reflex and continues on with his mission; break into the prison and rescue his children...again. The day is perfect for what he needs to do; the Prison Governor isn’t present at the prison and the guards are just switching shifts while most of them have gone to supper. During the half hour this process takes, the amount of guards at any door is minimal. Even though this does make things easier for him the Troll King is still deeply angry and disappointed that he has to do this _at all._

   “I am the Anderson the Troll King! My days shouldn’t be spent rescuing my pathetic children.” The Troll King unwittingly says this aloud as he walks past a horse and rider leaving one of the side prison gates...ah. The Troll King may not be the smartest in the 9 Kingdoms, but he knows an opportunity when he sees it.

   The rider turns his head to face the direction he heard the voice, but all he can see is the gates closing shut with a resounding clang. Feeling more than a little confused, the rider shakes his head and continues on.

   The Troll King meanwhile – now on the other side of gates, having slipped in before they shut completely - watches the rider gaze directly at him and then apparently seeing nothing, he leaves.

   A wide triumphant smile spreads across the Troll Kings bulbous face, feelings of invincibility and power course through him; dominant like a drug.

   “Yes....” He hums quietly, despite the situation he finds himself in – the smile is still strong on his face. He instinctively wriggles his feet; basking in the knowledge that the shoes upon his feet are the most powerful and glorious in existence ...they make him invisible.

   The Troll king breathes deeply and walks on towards the prison doors. As he passes the first guard, he slows down his pace and reaches into his pocket to pull out the pouch of pink, glittering dust he carries. With a gleeful smile he pours a small amount into his hand. He reaches his arm back and throws the dust directly into the guards face. The guard sneezes and looks confused for only a split second, almost immediately after the Troll dust hits him the guard collapses onto the ground outside the massive prison door; thhe poor guard is now fast asleep. The Troll King crouches down beside the sleeping form and searches him for the key. He finds it and grasps it tightly in his hand. The aged piece of metal swiftly disappears under the spell of his magic shoes and becomes invisible just like him.

   With the use of Troll dust and his magic shoes, Anderson the Troll King has no doubt that he is invincible.

   Sometime later his confidence is still going strong as he moves through the massive prison, taking down guard after guard with his Troll dust. Having reached the wing his children are imprisoned in, there is only one more guard standing in his way. He repeats the process he did with the first guard, hits him square in the face with Troll dust and steals the key he needs to break his children out. Key in hand he steps over the guard and continues down the low ceilinged, narrow, dark stone corridor.

   The Troll King is casting brief glances at each cell door, reading the names etched on each one. He soon comes across the one he’s looking for;

   Blabberwort The Troll, Blue Bell The Troll, Burly The Troll. All with their prisoner numbers and sentence time (3yrs ) beneath their names.

   He sticks the key in the lock and turns it. As he opens the door the three adult Trolls within scramble together clumsily in the middle of the room. There’s only one person who could’ve opened the door and appear to not even be there.

   “You’re pathetic!” The Troll King spits. “I never, _ever_ want to have to do this _again!_ ”

   “Sorry Dad!” The Troll on the right (Burly); the tallest one, with the biggest nose, pale brown leathery and wrinkled skin, thick dark hair and wearing a red shirt underneath typical, leather Troll attire. Out of all three of them, he is the one that looks most like his father, and even that resemblance is small.

   “Sorry Dad!” Blabberwort is in the middle and the only female out of the trio, echoes her brothers words. She has thick, curly red hair and dark brown skin, and like her brothers is wearing almost purely leather clothing.

   “It won’t happen again!” Blue Bell, the shortest and youngest of the group shrinks slightly against his sister. His hair is thick and curly like his sisters, but brown like his brother and father. The leather attire he’s wearing is light brown.

   “The next time you’re in here, you’re on your own!” Anderson The Troll King nearly yells.

   “Come on Dad! Take off the shoes.” Burly says with a faint note of concern; gesturing in the general direction his father must be.

   “I can handle them.” The Troll King grumbles just as he starts to slide first his right, and then his left foot out of the shoes (when both feet are out you notice that he’s already wearing a set of thin, leather boots). As he does this his children watch with trepidation as their father slowly appears amidst a swirl of gold sparkles and a light whooshing sound. He is shorter than Burly, but taller than Blabberwort and has unusually short hair for a Troll. He has small, narrow eyes that are close together and his skin is extremely pale. Like his children, he is wearing mostly leather. And also like his children, his ears are pointy and stick out from the side of his head. His are severely scarred and have silver piercings decorating them.

   The Troll King collapses against the doorway of the cell as he becomes visible again, after wearing them for so long a swooping wave of nausea instantly overwhelms him.

   His three children watch on, unsure what to do. This usually happens when their father wears them for long periods of time. The Troll King is famously stubborn and whenever they try to help him he always responds with anger.

   Now that he’s visible, the shoes are as well. They are golden, and a shining material of faint rainbow colours is woven through them in many swirly shapes. On the tip of each shoe there is miniature, silver crown.

   After a moment, The Troll King takes a deep breath and picks up the shoes; putting them with care into the leather pack around his waist. Leather is extremely prevalent in Troll life; garments, shoes, bags, and basically anything where applicable is made of leather. 

   “Come on, let’s go.” The Troll King orders to his children and walks out of the cell.

   Blabberwort, Burly and Blue Bell hastily follow him.

 

_Meanwhile, in New York City..._

 

   Harry calls out to John from the other side of the bathroom door. John is currently inside and taking a hot, soothing shower. The feel of the water is melting relief into his skin; his shoulder was feeling especially achy when he woke up this morning. Sometimes a hot shower is the best form of relief, this is his second one today. The corner of his mouth quirks in a wry smile as he thinks to himself – _how bored must I be to have two showers in one day?_ Still, even he knows that thought is an empty one; the showers feel _too damn good to care about boredom_.

   Upon hearing his sister – though not all that clearly – he takes a break from massaging some body-wash onto his skin and pulls the clear shower curtain back a smidgeon.

   “What?” He yells over the pounding of the water.

   Suddenly the bathroom door is swung open.

   “Holy hell Harry!” John nearly squeals in surprise. He's not particularly self-conscious about nudity; time spent in the army cured any he had. But when your sister walks in on you while you’re taking a shower...well, your first instinct is to quickly hide yourself behind the curtain...John groans as he realizes the curtain is clear. He then grabs his towel – on a hook by the wall just outside the shower – to wrap around his waist, even though he’s not quite done washing.

   “Oh please.” Harry waves a hand. “It’s nothing I haven’t seen before, I did live with you when you were going through puberty remember?” Harry smirks and crosses her arms, leaning casually against the bathroom wall.

   “Yeah, don’t remind me.” Some of John’s most horrifyingly embarrassing memories were from that time...he shudders.  “Now please. Get. Out.” John reaches out with his free hand, the other one holding up the towel, to turn off the water. “And would you please learn to knock first before entering a room, at the very least...get a shower curtain that isn’t bloody _clear!_ ” _A clear shower curtain_ _makes no sense_ , John adds in his head.

   “Anyway, I just said I needed to ask you something.” Harry says, giving no indication that she even heard what John said. He frowns.

   “Alright, and you needed to burst in on me while having a shower because...?” John, still in the shower, sits down on the edge of the tub.

   “I’m in a hurry.” Harry finishes for him, and _finally_ turns around and opens the bathroom door to leave. “And I want to offer you a free meal down at the Grill. Go and have a bite, on me.” Harry adds on a smile for emphasis.

   John raises an amused eyebrow.

   “Oh...ok, any particular reason you’re giving me the boot?” John says as he pushes himself back to a standing position.

   “I’ve got company coming.” Harry rests her elbow on the door frame, her other hand still on the door handle.

    John glances at his sister and notices she’s wearing a rather racy red top and pitch black dress pants.

   “Ah, Mary again?” John asks, Harry nods. “So...that would be a ‘company’ of one I take it?” John uses air quotes on company.

    “Fuck you.” Harry grins and sticks out her tongue.

    John rolls his eyes. “What are we seventeen?” John reaches out and turns the water back on. Harry, taking the hint turns around but doesn’t leave. John sighs and tosses the towel onto the bathroom floor. She’s obviously not done talking to him, and if his sister really is having “company” over John would rather not be in the flat when she arrives. So John resumes his washing, quickly.

    “No, I’m 45 and you’re 38. Oh, we’re also brother and sister so some regression is bound to happen when we're together.” Harry sniggers and shrugs; at last leaving the bathroom and shutting the door behind her.

   “Ha!” John laughs, and then sighs and proceeds with rinsing off the soap. Well, at least there’s a free meal coming this evening. And since John would rather not walk in on his sister having sex, John considers possibly going to visit their grandmother (his mother’s mother, and the only grandmother Harry and he ever knew) as well after eating. That’s something he only ever does when he’s in a good mood (and today, his mood isn't half-bad), visiting her is never easy, but since coming back to New York he feels an obligation to do so at least once in a while. Obligation to whom...John doesn’t really know.

   He hadn’t spoken to her for nearly 4 years before being sent home to London after being WIA and has only visited her twice within the last 5 months (as far as John knows, Harry hasn’t visited her at all since being back in New York. He’s not surprised; Harry and she were always at each other’s throats when Harry and he were growing up. She won’t even acknowledge her as family, and honestly, John doesn’t blame her). Grandmother would send him an occasional letter when he was in Afghanistan, but she never put much in them and her writing was always...difficult, literally, to read due to her hands shaking. John knows she’s not the nicest person, but he does feel sorry for her. Even after all these years, she still hasn’t accepted the fact her daughter left without a word, to...anyone. Gone for good...Grandmother has never been quite the same since. And like Harry, their she's an alcoholic. As far as he knows she’s been one for most of her life.

   John breathes deeply and rinses off the last bit of soap as he replays the day’s events and interactions with Harry in his head.

   This is one of Harry and John’s good days, there are times when Harry is an awful mood and takes out her anger by yelling in frustration. There are times when John is worried she’ll regress back to drinking, but so far she hasn’t...and John takes that as a good sign.

 

 

_Back in the 4 th kingdom...._

 

 

   The Troll King is striding – well, strutting would be the more accurate term – back through the corridors of the prison, his three children following close behind. He hasn’t spoken to them since they’ve left to cell, but they’ve kept up a commentary on how it wasn’t their fault they were caught in the 4th kingdom by a passing carriage that just happened to be carrying a group of newly trained guards (heading for who knows where). At that point, The Troll King had just told them, with all the strength his voice could muster, to _“Be quiet!”_

   Now, as they’re about to pass another corridor –

  “Wait!” The Troll King hears a haunting voice speak to him, without even thinking he suddenly stops. The children look at him, confusion evident on their faces. Didn’t they hear it? “Come to me...” The voice speaks again, the same haunting; alluring tone...it isn’t even a choice, The Troll King growls and gives into a strong urge of curiosity and turns down the corridor he heard the voice come from; completely disregarding the sign that reads “Maximum Security Wing”.

 

_Outside of the prison...._

 

   The Royal carriage speeds up fractionally as it rides up the causeway towards the Snow White Memorial Prison, and passes under the giant, menacing stone archway close to the large front doors. As the carriage pulls up and stops in front of the giant metal doors, The Prince yawns deeply and waits for the carriage door to be opened for him by Anthea.

   When it is, Mycroft steps out – careful not to dishevel his royal attire, a white outfit with golden buttons, a purple sash and bright red threading - and casts a disappointed gaze around him. There’s nobody here, no one to greet him. No indication they even knew there were coming.

   “Well, this is...unsatisfactory.” The Prince crosses his arms and assumes a haughty air perfectly suited to the him.

   “I’m sure they haven’t forgotten about your visit.” Anthea says, undoubtedly trying to sound confident but Mycroft can tell she’s a little confused herself.

   Mycroft raises both eyebrows, daring her to deny the evidence that this is clearly not the case. He then huffs out an annoyed breath and waits by the carriage as Anthea makes her way to go inside and see what’s happened.

 

_Inside the prison..._

 

 

   The Troll King and his children are now walking along yet another corridor. As they grow closer to the single cell contained in this area, the King feels inexplicably drawn to it with an even stronger force. He opens another door; in front of him is yet another one, obviously made out of heavier metals and locked. To his left he sees another notice;

   MAXIMUM SECURITY WING

   PRISON GUARDS:

   DO NOT ENTER ALONE!

   DO NOT ENTER UNARMED!

   DO NOT ENTER WITHOUT GOVERNERS APPROVAL!

   He scoffs and walks up to the other door, he pulls out some of the keys he’s collected off of various guards and precedes with trying a few to get the door open.

   As he does this, his children behind him are close to panicking.

   “Suck an elf!” Burly says, pointing to the sign.

   “Oh!” Blabberwort exclaims, rushing over to the sign. “You were right!”

   Burly thought he’d seen another sign earlier and had whispered so to his siblings.

   Blue Bell joins them by the sign and gasps. “Maximum Security! We’re not supposed to be in here!”

   Burly turns around to face their father. “Dad! No one’s ever allowed in there! This is where they keep The Queen...” He finishes in a slightly quieter note.

   Their father, Anderson The Troll King ignores them all and having found the right key, steps through and begins walking the short corridor towards the single cell door at the end of it.

   About a quarter ways down, a sign pops out from the wall:

 

   ABSOLUTELY NO COMMUNICATION WITH PRISONER

 

  The Troll King side-steps it and continues walking, as do his children. Not long after, another sign pops up.

 

   ABSOLUTELY NO PHYSICAL CONTACT WITH PRISONER

 

   Blabberwort, Blue Bell and Burly begin muttering with anxiety. Things like; “Dad, this is really bad!” or “This is not good.” “What’s going on?”

   Another signs pops out, this time from the ceiling and there’s a basket attached.

 

   NO FOOD BEYOND THIS POINT. PLACE BELOW.

   

   Blabberwort says quietly. “No food?”

   Their Dad simply walks around it and towards the cell door; all three of the children try to stop him.

   “Dad don’t!”

   “This could be a trap!”

   “What are you doing?!”

   The Troll King ignores all of them, and once he’s standing outside the cell door. The voice echoes again, loudly, and this time they all can hear it....

_“Open the door...open the door to everything you desire...”_

   Anticipation buzzes within the Troll King, he quickly steps forward and opens the little latch that covers a viewing hole into the cell beyond.  As soon as the latch opens, a burst of glittering pink light is released and the Troll King gazes onto the figure inside the small room.

   An intoxicatingly beautiful woman is sitting calmly on a stool in the middle of the cell, caressing a dog with long, golden fur. The dog sits with nearly the same serenity beside her. The woman is wearing a black velvet hooded cape and a blood red dress, her lips match the colour of her dress exactly and her raven black hair, all pulled up into a complicated bun compliments her cape. Her alluring pale green eyes, set beautifully and widely upon her face, exude such a strong presence you can’t help but fall under the spell this woman is breathing out through every pour of her being.

   This is The Queen.

 

_Outside the prison...._

 

   “This is getting ridiculous.” The Prince mumbles and straightens himself out of his leaning position against the carriage. He straightens his shirt with a swift downward tug and walks towards the doors. “Anthea?” He calls. Nothing. “Anthea?!” He calls again, this time a little louder. His brow wrinkles in confusion as he nears the open doors; he turns to look back briefly. _Alright, I suppose I’m going in. I wonder what’s taking her so long,_ Mycroft thinks to himself.

   Distantly he hears the howling of a Wolf as he reaches the doors and pushes one wide open, he walks in. It’s almost completely dark, there’s no sign of...anyone, anything. “Hello?” Again, nothing. He frowns and walks forward a few more steps. “Anthea?”

   Suddenly the door swings shut behind him. Startled by the sound The Prince swiftly turns around...and is met with the sight of Anthea pressed into a series of spikes on the inside of the door, blood pouring down her dead form.

   Mycroft’s jaw drops, his insides feel sick and he has little time to register more than the feeling of shock before he feels big hands grip him from behind.

   “Hello Princey!” A loud voice yells in his ear.

   The Prince recognizes the voice of a Troll when he hears it, suddenly he is pushed violently backwards...and into the arms of yet more unfamiliar Troll faces. If it were any other time, he’d be practising his ability to hide expressions of repugnance at the sight and smell of them, but with seeing Anthea and even seeing Trolls here in the first place, all he can think is; _What is going on?!_

   The two Trolls he fell into grasp his arms tightly and ferociously throw him against a wall only a few feet away. Pain resounds in his head at the blow; he rapidly feels a sense of dizziness and nausea as he stumbles backwards. The Prince is again thrown against a different wall; more pain resonates within his body. He groans loudly and one of the Trolls begins slapping his face repeatedly, he is then dragged by all three Trolls a bit further into the small entrance hall and pushed roughly against yet another wall. Few times has the Prince ever felt this much pain, though each time the pain wasn’t physical. Two were the death of his parents, and the other...he thinks about even less.

  He is roughly tossed to the floor.

   “Now he’s mine!” One of the Trolls says, sounding a little bit too giddy for Mycroft’s comfort.

   “Nu-uh, I get the first shot!” Another one, the shortest one, rebuts.

   The other Troll pushes the short one. “You got the first last time!”

   They continue to argue and the Prince sees his chance to escape. Ignoring the pain in his body he starts crawling towards the exit.

   “Enough!” A voice, all too familiar to the Prince rings loudly throughout the room. He freezes and is jaw clenches. _No...it...it can’t be, how did she escape? This must have something to do with these Trolls._ “You’re a long way from your Castle, Mycroft.” The Queen speaks with a tone too serene. Mycroft turns his head and gazes with both disbelief and anger at her, unable to look away as he slowly pushes himself up off the floor. She’s looking at him with a smile and an expression of quiet amusement, and behind her is yet another Troll. “Maybe you should’ve stayed there. Hm, although, now that you’re here...this certainly will make things easier for me.” She walks forward a few steps and stops right in front of him. “My silly boy, my darling step-son.” His step mother, The Queen reaches out and gently lets her fingers graze his cheek. The Prince shudders with such potent disgust and anger he feels sick to his stomach. He is careful to not show how seeing her affects him. He straightens himself and backs away.

      “You - You will pay for this.” He says, trying to sound sure and control...from the look on her face, he must not be succeeding. All the Trolls move from their previous positions in the room and gather behind her.

     She laughs. “Oh I don't think so. On the contrary, I think you’ll find...there’s very little you’ll be able do.” She smiles and leans down to pat a dog; Mycroft has only just noticed the canine. “You know what this is?” The Queen asks him. Mycroft glances at the dog; _it’s...just a dog_... “This is a very...special kind of dog.” She annunciates the word special. There’s an ominous feeling you get when something dire is about to happen, The Prince is feeling this way right now. “I hope you like dogs Mycroft, you’re going to spend the rest of your life as one.”

    Just then The Queen stops her petting of the dog and assumes a regal pose, and the dog rushes forward towards the Prince. Mycroft can only watch is shock as the dog leaps at him and places his front paws upon the Princes stomach. At the first moment of contact, the dog begins to radiate a glittering aura and starts to morph; the golden long haired dog’s features are distorting and warping. The dog is growing taller, fur turning into skin and clothing, ears shrinking into human ears and face changing into the face of Mycroft.

    The Prince’s breath leaves him as he stares in shock at the spitting image of himself standing directly in front of him. As he thought nothing could be any more bizarre, he can feel his whole body contorting, not painfully, but the world is getting...taller? His sense of smell is getting more powerful and – the Princes tries to talk – he’s...barking?! What on earth! He swiftly turns his head from side to side and tries to catch a glimpse of himself...he has tail. He still feels like himself, but he cannot ignore the evidence his eyes are giving him. He’s been turned into a dog, and the dog has been turned into him.

   The Trolls are laughing and clapping, clearly amused at what just occurred. The dog with the Princes body is holding his hands in an awkward position, his tongue is lolling out of his mouth and he’s trying to scratch himself as if he were still a dog.

   The real Prince lifts his head to look at his step-mother The Queen and desperately tries to yell and scream in outrage, only to feel anger and frustration at hearing incessant barking coming out of his mouth.

   The Queen is simply watching him with her arms smoothly crossed; the proud and sultry smile on her face might as well be a permanent fixture of her appearence. She walks towards him and bends down to speak to him.

   “Come now Mycroft, if you’re a good doggie I’ll be sure to give you a treat.”

   Mycroft growls, actually growls, and desperately trys to think of a way to get out of here. The Queen straightens back up and turns around.

   Seeing his chance, The Prince quickly turns around and starts running as fast as he can down a corridor a bit off to his left, in the opposite direction of The Queen and the Trolls.

   Almost simultaneously, the Trolls and The Queen notice him trying to escape.

   “Get him!” The Troll King yells.

   Suddenly the trio of trolls rush forward in the direction of the dog.

   “Stop him! Bring him back to me _alive!_ ” The Queen screeches, her usual serene tone completely abandoned in favour of wrath.

   “We’ll get him! He’s not getting anywhere!” Burly hollers back as he runs after the dog.

   Blue Bell sprints after him. Blabberwort pauses briefly in her running and says. “He can’t escape, we’re in a prison!” She snorts and rolls her eyes as if this is the most obvious thing and then sprints after her brothers.

   The Queen isn’t convinced, and her confidence in the Trolls is minimal at best. She needs another plan. As she contemplates this, she turns around to face the dog turned Prince.

   “Well, your highness...” She says softly, her calm demeanour back in place – though a part of her mind is working at incredible speeds.

   The Queen walks slowly around the Dog Prince as he starts turning in quick little circles on the spot. His gaze is focused behind himself and there is a deep frown on his face.

   “Anything to say?” She asks.

   He pauses in his movements, looks at her and starts to whimper; his lip is pushed out in a full pout and the rest of his face is pulled into a sad frown.

    “Wh-Wh-Where’s my tail gone?” 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here's another chapter! I'm really enjoying writing this! :D Hope you're enjoying reading it! :)

**Chapter 3**

 

   As it becomes darker outside, the night is grows somewhat chillier.  And even though John is wearing a thick, taupe coloured jumper he is also wearing a black jacket with leather elbow and shoulder patches.

   He takes a pause in his walk towards the Grill and zips up his jacket all the way.

   The Grill is a relatively short walk through one corner of the Park from the apartment building his sister lives in; however it is longer than it looks once you’re on the ground than from viewing it from the kitchen. Although it does put a strain on John’s leg, he enjoys the exercise he gets from walking. Of course the activity is much more subdued than the rigorous training and action his body has been used to in the past. Whether it was when he was in the army or not, he does miss that feeling...the thrill of running, his heart pumping blood fiercely through his body, his muscles aching in that deeply satisfying way after a good workout. Well, there’s not much he can do about that now.

   With his jacket now ensuring all his body heat is kept close to him, he continues walking. It is very quiet, too quiet for John’s taste (sounds of a buzzing city seem very distant here). His blood, mind and bone are used to a cacophony of sound. At this thought John’s leg gives a painful twinge, he grimaces and forces himself to keep a steady pace.  

   John didn’t manage to leave the apartment before Mary arrived, however much to his relief Harry didn’t leap on her the minute she entered (which gathering by the imapatient look on Harry's face when she gazed at Mary while he was greeting her, she greatly wanted to do). He said hello to his sister’s girlfriend with a smile and polite handshake, and they exchanged a few commonplace greetings before Harry grabbed her hand and pretty much dragged her away and into the kitchen; where a meal of seafood fettuccini Harry prepared lay waiting on the table...which John suspected would soon be abandoned.

   So before he could add hearing his sister make pleasure noises to his list of horrors he’d rather forget, he quickly made his way out the door; his blond (greying) hair still slightly damp and his silver coloured cane gripped tightly in his hand. As he exited the building, he thought with a smile – _“Mary is good for my sister, similar to Clara and yet different. They have more...in common.”_ The ‘in common’ certainly has nothing to do with looks; Mary is quite small with short curly blond hair and wide brown eyes. Harry is taller than John and has ruler straight dark brown coloured hair that barely reaches her chin. Her eyes are the same colour as Johns, a pale almost grey blue.

   John hopes this time will work out for Harry, though there is still some manner of distance between him and his sister John truly wants her to be happy. She’s been working hard these past few months with trying to quit drinking, going to AA meetings and such. That’s where she met Mary. John knows that alcoholism is a disease and not one cured, and one difficult to manage depending on the individual, it all comes down to will and the support of others.

   As John rounds another bend in the path – his thoughts quieting for the time being - he takes another glance at the area surrounding him; dark, dozens and dozens of trees, there are no gardens in this area, and most notably there are no other people. There is very little but the feeling of cool, delicate wind blowing upon John’s face.  If John were of a more paranoid frame of mind, he would probably feel more on edge with how...eerie this area of the Park feels. As it is, John isn’t bothered in the slightest, he’s used to much worse. Although it would be lying if he were to deny that his soldier instincts – that once warned him danger was close, either in the form of bombs or enemy troops nearing, or when a sniper had their laser dot pointing in your direction...ironically, that is the time when his instincts failed him for a second he couldn't afford to lose, and how he has a permanent scar on his shoulder to serve as a reminder - aren’t tingling slightly in the back of his mind. For what reason, John isn’t sure.

   He continues walking in the direction of the Grill and is very much looking forward to a hearty meal, he smiles at the thought. The only thing that has now changed is a slight straightening of his posture and out of instinct he’s keeping a closer watch on the sounds and sights around him.

 

_In the 4 th kingdom, Snow White Memorial Prison...._

 

   The Queen is taking what could almost be considered a leisurely stroll through the corridors of the prison, her mind devising and fine-tuning the plan she’s been working on for years while captive here. She knows she absolutely _has_ to get the dog back, him being loose and not within her sight is an unacceptable liability. She highly doubts the Troll children will catch him, Trolls are mostly unintelligent and rather stupid creatures she knows (Especially since they’re generally of the mindset of believing they are much smarter than they really are), and she had to seriously resist rolling her eyes when one of the children said “He can’t escape! We’re in a prison!” ...it is clear that anyone with half a brain and the right opportunity can do anything, and she knows Prince Mycroft isn’t stupid. It would be ignorant of her to say that, which is why she is quite nervous – though she would never admit it – that the Prince has managed to escape her grasp. She will not allow him anymore opportunities. For now though, she needs to keep the Troll children and the Troll King on her side; much to her chagrin – they’re her only allies at the moment. Besides, she knows having the children in the position they’re in now could give her a possible advantage against the Troll King should the need arise.

  As she glides through a new passageway, she intensely eyes the faces of the prisoners; clawing through the barred windows of their cell doors, crying out with all manner of desperation and complaints at the sight of her. She ignores them all, and continues giving brief but intense stares to their faces...looking, searching for...something.

   “Please give me something to eat! I haven’t had any food since yesterday!”

   “Let us out! Come on, just gives us the key, let us out!” Another prisoner calls out, The Queen peripherally notices a Guard sprinkled with Troll dust leaning against a cell door.

   She walks forward a few more steps...

   Sherlock leaps from his reclined position on the floor as footsteps echo closer in the direction of his cell. He has of course been listening to the discord happening within the prison; however, whatever was going on was too distant for him to make out anything clear, even with his sensitive Wolf hearing. Although he did notice one of the guards patrolling this section of the prison suddenly collapse and fall asleep against a cell door not far down from his own. If he here in better condition he probably would’ve been able to deduce why and everything that happened, but after months of captivity, food depravation and the painful ache of being taunted by breezes of the outside and moonlight, his mind and body have started to atrophy from despair.

   No matter how hard he has tried to overcome the needs of his body, no matter how many times he has retreated to a safe corner in the palace of his mind, here is his body - a cumbersome necessity to existing - becoming weak and causing his mind to wither even more...He is aware of this, and that makes him terrified. The young Wolf has only ever been truly terrified (and that particular terror is all the more imprinted on his memory because it was accompanied by nearly as powerful anger - he quickly stamps down that memory with all the cold force of impenetrable ice) once before in his life. After that he promised himself to never feel or _do_ anything that might again compromise himself, and should he happen to feel anything...he wouldn't let it control him. And now, because of one, stupid, _stupid_ mistake he is in a cell within The Snow White Memorial prison...

   He laughs inwardly at the painful irony.  

   He really needs to get out of here.

   Sherlock - now standing - rushes over to his cell door to eye the figure gliding down the corridor... _ah._ Despite the state of his mind, he knows instantly who the woman nearing his cell is. _Hm...this is most interesting._ He purposefully takes the deepest breath he can manage, cataloguing a full profile of her scent; Dark. Cherries. Dangerous. Cunning. Moss. Chocolate. Hiding. Dominant. Humid. Velvet. Powerful. Magic.

   The Queen stops walking as she notices yet another prisoner, this one is silent – unlike all the others. Intrigued, The Queen walks toward the young looking man...no, not quite a man, something else she thinks. She gives his face (the only part she can see) a quick once over, a slight smile grazing her features as she does so. The man has curly dark hair, which is falling in unruly locks past his chin. His face is haggard, and his high-set prominent cheekbones only make him appear more so. And his eyes...his eyes are a melancholy menagerie of grey, blue and sea-green, with the faintest lingering gold. Behind all his obvious features, there is a less obvious almost...animalistic aura to him. And she senses that this man is something of a paradox, of what she can’t be certain. He can’t be more than 23 or 24, The Queen hypothesizes.

   Whatever else her observations tell her, there is one thing that is quite obvious about him; he is not fully human, and he is exactly what she needs right now.

   “What are you?” The Queen asks.

   The young man stiffens slightly and appears to be observing her from head to toe, yet there is something...dulled, and unsure about his gaze. As if he is looking at her through a thin, grey veil. He looks frustrated, and in pain.

   “I don’t see how that is any of your concern.” The young man says in a very deep, emotionless baritone. He's clearly trying to show an air of casual indifference; which The Queen suspects he would normally be good at portraying, except he is clearly weakened by being imprisoned. She can use this to her advantage.

   “Hm. If I tell you who _I_ am, will you tell me what _you_ are?” The Queen asks, taking a step closer to the cell door.

   The young man’s face doesn’t even twitch; he takes a deep yet shaky breath.

   “No need, it would only take the dullest of minds to _not_ be able to deduce who you are.” He shrugs, but there is desperation in the way he has his hands clinging tightly to the bars of his cell door window.

   The Queen nods, her smile growing a little wider.

   “Fair enough. Although I would advise you not to drag this out any longer than it has to, I will find out what you are eventually, might as well tell me now.” The threat, though subtle, is clear in the Queen’s tone of voice.

   “Fine.” The young man closes his eyes briefly and seems to shudder, when he looks at The Queen again his eyes flash from their very human colour to a deep, canine gold that covers the entire surface of his eyes. Almost as quickly as the gold appeared, his previous colour has returned. “Half-Wolf.” He finally says, as though it’s as obvious as the fact that The Queen is a woman.

   The Queen gives an approving nod. “And do you have a name?”

   “Wolves don’t have names.” The young man says coldly.

   This is true. Generally Half-Wolves (known more simply - though not as accurately - as just “Wolves”) don’t have names, their kind don’t see any real need for them (to them, each individuals name is their "scent", as unique as a fingerprint) and mostly tend to keep to themselves (when they’re not hunting that is), though it is not known whether this is mostly because of their nature or the fact that they have been so hated and ostracised by other races for centuries. It certainly doesn’t help that many Wolves have been responsible for the deaths and attempted killings of multiple people, and livestock throughout history. Still, no more so than the human folk.

   The Queen ignores him. “But you have one, don’t you?” She asks simply. The young man merely stares at her. “Alright, I suppose it doesn’t matter all that much.” The Queen reaches down and takes a key out of her pocket. The young Wolf immediately eyes it with what could be considered a hungry gaze. “I will free you. However, I’m sure you are clever enough to know that I must ask for something in return for your freedom.” Her smile turns almost wicked.  

   The young Wolf immediately grasps the bars tighter.

   “What do you want?” He asks.

_Yes, he is eager. I can use this._

   “Good boy. Now, all I want is for you to serve me.” The Queen adds a noticeably suggestive edge to her statement, though this goes unnoticed by the young man who is staring at the key with the most intense fixation.

   Something odd flashes across the young Wolf’s face, though it is gone before The Queen can register it. He takes two more breaths.

   “I am yours.”

   She knows this means a lot coming from a Wolf. Loyalty is virtually inherent in their DNA.

   “Good.” She smoothly rests a hand on the cell door near his face. “I’ve turned Prince Mycroft into a Dog.”

   The young Wolf blinks, and is silent for a few seconds. He then gives an outrageous laugh, his whole body becoming more alive than it had looked a few minutes ago. The Queen raises a single eyebrow.

   “Good idea.” The young Wolf grins.

   “Find him. Before the Trolls do.”  She says, very unyielding.

   The young Wolf rolls his eyes. “Trolls.” He scoffs.

   The Queen’s smile changes into an amused one, and with a swift movement she unlocks the young Wolf’s cell and opens the door. The Queen looks at the rest of his appearance as he rushes out; he is tall, at least 6 feet, he’s wearing a long sleeved cotton shirt, plain brown pants, a dark leather jacket and a very old pair of boots. All of his clothing shows signs of deep wear.

   Sherlock can feel his body already stronger from knowing that true freedom is so near; he takes a brief sniff, sifting through many scents assaulting his nose to find the one he is looking for. This takes barely a second, and he instantly starts heading in the desired direction.

   “Wait!” The Queen hollers.

   The young Wolf pauses in his movement and turns to face her, his expression unreadable. The Queen walks up to him, and though she is a full head shorter than him her presence is nonetheless intimidating. “Give your will to me.” She says, pouring all her powers of seduction and persuasion into those few words. “Be mine, to summon and control.” She stretches out a pale hand and strokes the sharp cheekbones on the young Wolfs face. His previous blank expression appears to falter and he unconsciously leans toward her voice. “Do you understand?” The Queen adds, basking in the submission the young Wolf is showing. Suddenly, he stops moving and straightens his posture. He stares with an expression of deep curiosity on his face.

   He then takes a deep breath and emphatically nods.

   The Queen smiles widely.

 

_Meanwhile, in the prison basement...._

 

 

 _This cannot be happening!_  Prince Mycroft has these words on repeat; chanting in his head. He pushes his four legs – _four legs?!_ – to run faster, to _please_ outrun the three Trolls he can smell and hear pursuing him. Mycroft could’ve happily lived the rest of his life without knowing what _Trolls_ smelled like to the extra powerful and sensitive nose of a dog.

   He has to somehow escape this vile place, and get as far away from his step-mother as possible. Perhaps he should’ve thought this through a little more carefully, but there is no time for him to re-evaluate his decision to bolt. He had no choice. And he knows whatever The Queen has planned, he is in terrible danger and she must be stopped. _Think Mycroft, think!_ He has to get his body back and shed this...dog form.

   From the narrowing corridors, and increasing dampness, The Prince surmises that he must be somewhere in the basement. The ground is growing gradually more rough against the soles of his paws – _I can’t believe I have paws now..._ – and the air is thickening with the smell of must, decay and the acrid smell of...of what he _really_ hopes _isn’t_ rat urine. _Curse this nose!_

   Luckily he hasn’t met any significant barriers yet, all the doors he’s come across have either been open or unlocked and easy to push through. He skids around another bend and comes face to face with an archway; he darts through it and quickly runs down the short set of stairs there. This appears to be a small storage room; there are old crates, empty painting frames and rusting candelabras lining the walls. The Prince stops in front of a fork of two separate passageways; the one on his right is flooded with a large pool of filthy water – The Prince wrinkles his nose at the sight, at least he thinks he does – and the one to his left is dry.  It isn’t even a choice, Mycroft gives the ghastly looking water a wide berth and just as he hears the Trolls getting closer – he bounds down the left passageway.

  Just as Mycroft turns another corner, the Trolls enter the same little storage area The Prince was in not 15 seconds before.

  Blabberwort, Burly and Blue Bell collide together on the small landing atop the set of stairs; all of them brandishing their axes and blunt swords. Growling, they fiercely push at each other to keep moving. Of course, all of them doing this at the same time only succeeds to slow them down. However they do reach the same diversion of passageways fairly quickly. After a few seconds of cajoling they rush down the flooded passageway.

 

  The Prince distantly hears the splashing and heaves the dog version of a sigh of relief, he doesn’t stop running though. Because it’s at this point his nose registers a new smell coming towards him, one similar – and yet not – to his own dog smell (he hates the smell of dogs, especially wet ones). His instinct tells him this is a Half-Wolf chasing him. He sighs inwardly; this really hasn’t been the best of days.

  Mycroft pushes himself to run faster. _Please, please let this be over soon._

 

_5 minutes earlier..._

 

  The Troll King is leaning against one of the walls of the entrance hall, the place where the confrontation with The Prince, The Queen and the dog occurred. The Troll King had never seen a more hilarious and entertaining sight in his entire life; he had sniggered and smiled with pleasure during the entire thing.

   Shortly after the Prince escaped and his children scurried after him – rightly so – The Queen had told him to stay put while she tended to some important matters. She then told the dog now in the Prince's body to wait outside for her, and after...revealing herself (must’ve cast some sort of spell on him, The Troll King thinks) to the driver of the Royal Carriage, she left the dog Prince in his charge; obviously confident that he wouldn't run off or the driver wouldn't do something stupid like leave to get help.

  The Troll King wasn’t happy at being told what to do and had given her his strongest glare; and she just calmly stood there and waited for him to comply. Which he did, and she then proceeded to wander off.

  This is why he now finds himself leaning against a wall, feeling more than a little resentful.  He growls in frustration and pushes himself off the wall; now pacing around the room instead.

  “Oof!” The Troll King stumbles as something suddenly rams into him. “Watch it!” He snarls, and turns to face the cause of what must surely be a bruise developing on his arm.

  Before him stands a young man, a young human man much taller than himself and he looks very annoyed. The young man ignores him and tries to run past in the direction The Troll King’s children ran in. Quickly, he reaches out and grabs the man’s arm. Both abruptly stop in their movements and stare at each other. An animalistic growl rips from the the young mans throat as he tries to tear his arm away.

  “And where do you think _you’re_ going?” _What is this? Some...escaped prisoner?_ The Troll King pulls himself closer, stretches up to his full height (which - compared to the man in front of him – doesn’t do much) and puts on his sternest, angriest face.

  The young man quickly looks The Troll King up and down. “I am following The Queen’s orders.” He tries to tear his arm away again, and fails.

  The Troll King scoffs.

  “I’m supposed to believe that? You’re a prisoner!”

  The young man rolls his eyes.

   “And clearly I’ve been let out. Whom do you think accomplished this? The Guards are all asleep thanks to your Troll dust, and not only am I positive of the fact that _you_ didn’t free me, judging by your agitation you haven’t left this room since what I assume to be a confrontation between The Queen and Prince Mycroft being turned into a dog, correct?” The young man pauses in his fast speaking words and eyes the King with a steely gaze. The Troll King fidgets slightly. “So, logically the only person conscious and available to free me would be the other person with a key, The Queen. Now, I am not yet up to my full strength as my previous attempts to remove myself from your grip have proved - ” The Troll King stiffens with anger at this not so subtle slight against his strength. How could this... _human_ man be stronger than _him?_ He’s the Troll King! “– so, if you don’t mind. Let. Me. Go.” 

  The young man accentuates these last three words with a disturbingly threatening tone. The Troll King finds himself yielding to his man and lets him go, which only serves to make the King even angrier.

  “Why would the Queen give orders to some random, _weak_ prisoner?!” The Troll King nearly yells, his heart beating faster and his breath coming out louder with each exhale.

  The young man doesn’t look in the least bit affected. He simply straightens out the sleeve of his coat, which had become slightly rumpled due to being grabbed by the Troll Kings large hand, and looks the Troll King over once more.

  He takes a deep breath. “You expect me to reveal this to someone who doesn’t even have the intelligence to realize that the magic shoes you carry - and clearly wear quite often - will eventually lead whatever minuscule amount of brains you have left to deteriorate and cause you to, eventually, go mad? Which I’m guessing wouldn’t be a far cry from your normal state of mind anyway.”  The young man says this very quickly, with an even tone of voice and an amused smirk on his face.

  The Troll King clenches his fists, obviously not used to being so insulted in this way, he braces himself to express his pent-up anger.

  But before he can do this, the young man rushes out of the room at incredible speed and runs down the hallway the dog and The Troll King’s children disappeared down minutes before.

  The Troll King clenches and unclenches his fists a few times more, and turns around to resume his pacing before uttering a single word. “Freak.”

 

_Presently, in the Prison basement..._

 

  The smell of the Prince is very potent and easy enough to follow. In very little time, Sherlock is not far behind the Trolls and comes to the same place they and the dog were barely minutes ago. He sees the two paths and takes a deep breath at the passage to his right; Trolls, no dog. As he does the same thing to the left passage, he can both smell the dog and hear the distant clatter of his nails against wet stone.

  With a gleeful smile on his face, Sherlock resumes running and heads in the direction of the Prince.

 

 

  At that moment The Prince enters a much larger storage area that appears to be even older than the smaller one he passed through previously. Must, dampness and cobwebs coat nearly every surface. Unidentifiable objects are covered with old cloth, and from what he can see there is everything from vases, to old carriage wheels and mirrors.

  Another aspect of the room suddenly occurs to him...it’s a dead end. Panic begins to set within his limbs, Mycroft quickly engages a long practise of reigning in fear (and honestly, all other emotions) and detaching himself in order to look at a situation with a cold, calculating eye (he takes a moment to at least be grateful for the fact that his mind hasn't been effected by this change). He can’t turn back; the Wolf is gaining on him fast.

  The Prince starts searching the room and almost immediately, he accidently knocks over an old statue, which then falls onto a table that proceeds to wobble unstably which causes something clothed and rectangular upon it to fall to the ground. As soon as it lands on the stone floor, the cloth falls off and the object is revealed to be a mirror. It catches Mycroft’s eye instantly...this is no ordinary mirror, he thinks to himself, the glass...it’s shimmering, like a mirage. And it isn’t showing his reflection, but it is instead showing a completely different scene altogether. A sight not at _all_ familiar to him, it doesn’t look like any part of the 9 kingdoms he’s ever seen. There appears to be some type of buildings in the distance, they're extraordinarily tall. In the foreground Mycroft can see a large grove of trees and a path of some sort.

  Suddenly, all the pieces click together for him... _Ah_. He knows what this is; he remembers reading texts about magic mirrors. Some of them can be used for travel, and based upon what he’s seeing; Mycroft theorizes this is one of them. He has no idea where it leads though.

  Unmoving, he looks on at the mirror... _hm, could I go through it? It’s not as if I have anywhere else I to go._ The Prince is abruptly pulled from his thoughts by the sight of something moving towards him from the other side of the mirror....it appears to be a person, a man. Without thinking he barks, to see if he can attract the man’s attention. He doesn’t seem to hear him though. Mycroft watches as the man walks by and disappears from his sight.

 

  Sherlock slides to a halt just outside the storage room and breathes deeply... _he is here._ The smell causes him to hesitate briefly, his whole figure tenses and he clenches his eyes shut; desperately trying to calm his angrily racing heart. _I am above this!_  He growls internally.

  It is...odd. The combination of human and dog is strange to Sherlock, but not just because of that, it is strange because...He quickly deletes that train of thought and instead focuses on the task at hand. He lets the feeling of finally being free wash out thoughts of anything else, especially _The Prince._

  He steps into the room.

Immediately, he sets his gaze on the Dog and the Dog quickly turns his head to face him. The eye contact makes Sherlock shiver unpleasantly, but he doesn’t show this and instead smiles a most unnerving smile. The Prince almost looks confused, as confused as a dog can look. Sherlock doesn’t register anything else about him because at that moment he notices an odd sound he can’t quite place...sounds like, congealed wind? He can’t think of a more suitable analogy, so instead he faces the direction the sound is coming from.

  Sherlock raises a single eyebrow as he eyes the shimmering rectangle of glass; it’s clearly a travelling magic mirror. Obviously.

  “Interesting.” He murmurs under his breath.

  His voice is like a catalyst, the Prince looks at the mirror and then at him, and then back again. Immediately the dog leaps forward towards the mirror and rapidly vanishes from Sherlock’s sight.

 

_In Central Park, New York City..._

 

  John is still walking a firm soldiers pace through the Park, gripping his cane tight. He’s not far from The Grill now, the thought of a delicious plate of well done steak, potatoes and maybe a soup has his stomach growling and his mouth watering.

  Not stopping his walk, John turns his gaze to look at the sky. There are no clouds, the sky is clear and he can see more stars than you’d think would be visible considering he’s in the middle of a rather large City (though not nearly as big as London). The spectacle is very...lovely, though it doesn't compare to the night-time desert skies he’s seen in Afghanistan, but beautiful all the same.

  Just as he refocuses his gaze forward, he notices a dog – what looks to be a golden retriever – running out of the bushes to his left and straight towards him at incredible speed.

  “What the hell?” He says.

  The dog looks disoriented, and before John can make so much as a move – like to _get out of the bloody way!_ – the dog barrels into him and he crashes to the ground; hitting his head with a loud and painful smack on the pavement.

  He loses consciousness instantly.

 

  It as though he’s being pushed through a tunnel of wind. His ears are filled with the sound of cracking, breaking glass; his body feels like it’s being twisted and warped, yet the sensation isn’t painful, merely...odd, and none-the-less interesting.

  All those sensations last for no longer than a few seconds, because almost immediately Sherlock is pushed to other side of the mirror (he jumped through it not long after the Prince) and lands with two feet on grassy ground. He swiftly turns around; the air appears to be rippling between two trees directly behind him. _Intriguing._

  He turns back to look at the area surrounding him.

  “What...” Is all he can say. Seldom has Sherlock ever been rendered speechless, but this...this is one of those moments. His senses are being assaulted by hundreds, _thousands_ of unfamiliar scents, sounds and sights. It is too much, too intense...he closes his eyes and tries instead to focus on those that are familiar to him...grass, trees, cool wind that feels strangely unfamiliar, and distantly he can smell various types of flowers...Keeping his eyes closed, he steels himself (prepared for the barrage of smells, unlike last time) and takes a deep breath...in record speed he catalogues the many unfamiliar scents. He can’t help but be wonderfully overwhelmed with the feeling of – finally – being outside! So many months of being kept caged indoors like an animal, the fresh air is the purest drug leeching into his system. And what makes it even more wonderful...it is night-time air. _Glorious._

  As he opens his eyes they immediately start darting all over the place, recording each piece of this new alien area. He hasn’t been besieged by this much new data for over 20 years. _Fascinating. Incredible._

  He casually scratches his head as he begins to rush forward. It is then he registers the scent of dog amongst all the other millions of smells. Not just any dog though, _The Prince_...but the scent isn’t alone, there is something new accompanying it, near to the Prince; the scent of a human man. Intrigued, Sherlock deeply breathes in the scent to catalogue it...only to feel completely winded and abruptly stilled.

  He gasps.

  The scent is pure... _pleasure,_ his mind supplies.  His whole body and entire mind begin singing with his strong Wolf instincts; his skin is tingling and his mouth unexpectedly starts watering....This smell, it's...Delicious. Wonderful. Husky. Sunlight. Bravery. Loyalty. Earth. Strength. Compassion. Denim. Wool...and a little something else that Sherlock categorizes in his mind as unexpected and intriguing.

  Sherlock stumbles forward a few steps. _What is this? This...intensity of sensation._ Sherlock isn’t sure if he likes it, but he can’t deny that his body is screaming _‘yes!’_ – for whatever reason – over and over again. His mind on the other hand is in chaos, and that he definitely hates. _It was just a teaser of a scent of a random man...why is it affecting me like **this?** I feel...weak, and yet strong. This doesn’t make any sense!_

  Temporarily lost in his thoughts, Sherlock begins to run forward; trying desperately to focus on another smell entirely, the scent of trees and fresh, open air... _ah, yes. This is much more agreeable._

  He continues to run, completely forgetting about the Prince for the time being.

 

  The rippling air between those two trees suddenly starts glowing brighter, the light moving outward to the very edges; revealing a faint rectangular shape. Suddenly, three Trolls materialize and the light returns once more to the vaguely noticeable rippling air it was before.

  Blue Bell emerges first, then Blabberwort and then Burly. All of them walk forward, stumbling from the sensation of whatever just happened to them. When they’d realized the path they took was a dead end – much to their frustration – they turned around and took the other way. Eventually they happened upon the storage room, and subsequently the mirror.

  Burly is the first to speak.

  “Suck an elf!” He exclaims with shock, staring dumbfounded at where the siblings now find themselves.

  “Where are we?” Blue Bell asks, his voice a little shaky.

  “Wow, get a look at _that._ ” Burly stares at the giant buildings surrounding them.

  “This isn’t part of the nine kingdoms.” Blabberwort says with what could almost be considered excitement. “This is a magical place! Look at all those lights!” She gestures with one hand towards the collection of buildings with hundreds of glowing windows.

  “They must go through a ton of candles!” Blue Bell adds.

  “Maybe we should claim this kingdom?” Blabberwort proposes, looking towards her two brothers.

   Blue Bell looks very enthused by the idea, Burly also.

  “That’s a sensational idea!” Burly claps his sister on the shoulder. “Let’s grab it before someone else does!”

  Blabberwort smiles and quickly reaches for her dagger. She kneels and holds it high above her head.

  “I hereby claim this land and all of its inhabitants in the name of the Troll race!” As she says this, both Burly and Blue Bell assume positions similar to hers. “Henceforth, it shall be known as...” Blabberwort pauses. Unsure, she looks at her brothers. “What shall we call it?”

  All three share glances with each other...then Blue Bell gets an expression of dawning realization on his face. “The tenth kingdom!” He says.

  Burly and Blabberwort smile widely.

  The three Troll siblings - feeling very proud of themselves - then thrust their weapons into the air and take simultaneous deep breaths; ready to shout the name of their newfound territory together.

  “The tenth kingdom!” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously Sherlock is much younger in this story than in the show, there is a reason for that which will become clearer as this fic progresses :). 
> 
> Also, I have a request. I'll be needing a song to use in the next chapter, to those who know the 10th Kingdom story you'll probably know what I'm referring to *wink, the three Trolls, wink*. I'd like to choose something different than what is originally used in the mini-series. If anyone has any suggestions, let me know! Something that is somehow related to Sherlock (or just Sherlock Holmes in general) would be great. However I'm open to pretty much any suggestion, though preferably something that is at least somewhat upbeat :)
> 
> The next chapter will most likely be up within the next few days!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the slight delay! Life, Thanksgiving, making a pie (it was deeeeeelicious :P) and stressing over what song to choose *headdesk* got in the way...but enough of that, on with the chapter! Enjoy! ;)
> 
>  
> 
> Another disclaimer (just to be thorough); I don't own BBC Sherlock or The 10th Kingdom in anyway, all credit goes towards the writers of both!

**Chapter 4**

 

_In the 4 th Kingdom, Snow White Memorial Prison..._

 

   “In a month I will have crushed the house of White. I will have Mycroft’s castle and his Kingdom.” The Queen says with pure delight, and no small amount of determination in her voice.

   The Troll King has his arms tightly crossed as he watches the Queen. They’re still within the Prison entrance hall, a guard or two lying on the ground in a deep sleep, sprinkles of bright pink dust cover their bodies. The Troll King smirks as he glances at them, before turning his gaze back to the Queen; now setting an elegant pace across the room and towards him. She stops in front of The Troll King, and gives him a cursory look before seeming to decide something. “And for helping me to escape, you may have half his Kingdom to rule.”

   The Troll King’s arms fall gracelessly to his sides, his mouth dropping open in shock.

   “Half the fourth kingdom...but it’s huge!” He’s breathless, and can’t help but feel deep resentment coil within him as he speaks those last three words; his kingdom is significantly smaller than the _Prince’s_.

    The Queen stays silent, closely watching the Troll King. He frowns and eyes her with slight suspicion; even so he is vibrating with the possibility of getting half of Prince Mycroft’s Kingdom. “What are you planning?” He asks, re-crossing his arms. “And what do I have to do?” Though not the smartest of Trolls (and that’s not a very wide spectrum of intelligence) he isn’t quite naive enough to think The Queen would just give him land without exacting some sort of payment or request.

   The Queen smiles.

   “Not much.”  She shrugs nonchalantly. “Simply allow me the use of your children until they have captured the Prince for me.”

   He raises a single eyebrow.

   “That’s all?” He asks, clearly surprised.

   The Queen rolls her eyes – The Troll King stiffens – and her smile suddenly fades as she stares at The Troll King with unwavering force.

   “Oh, and of course you will tell no one what you saw.” The Queen’s voice holds a tone darker than The Troll King has ever heard her use so far; her sultry voice clearly implying a threat.

   The Troll King nods. At this point, he has no intention of betraying the Queen, especially if she’s intending on giving him half of the spoiled, spineless little Prince Mycroft’s kingdom to rule. He grins widely.

   The Queen sees his acquiescence, walks past The Troll King and towards the exit. Before she can walk out, The Troll King raises his voice behind her.

   “Do I get to choose? Which half of the Kingdom I want?” He asks with curiosity.

 

_In Central Park, New York City...._

 

 _Ugh._ “Oh God...” John groans. The pain in his head vaguely reminds him of the time he fell from a tree (ironically, in Central Park) when he was 8, not long after his mother left. At least this time he doesn’t appear to be suffering any degree of concussion, though being a Doctor he knows that symptoms don’t always show right away. He’ll keep an eye out just in case, but his instinct is telling him that he’s suffered no more than a simple – albeit _bloody painful_ – blow to his head from being knocked over by...a dog.

   John immediately opens his eyes at the thought and looks around; lying directly beside him is the very same dog that sent him crashing to the ground; he guesses less than a minute ago. The golden retriever also appears to have suffered from the crash, he's making slightly pained sounds and trying to stand up shakily.  

   Fiercely ignoring a shooting pain radiating in his leg and shoulder, and the throbbing ache in his head, John pushes himself up to a sitting position. He vaguely registers a slight trickle of blooding running down his face from his forehead.

   He reaches over with his left hand and touches the dog gently. The dog seems to freeze, collapses clumsily to the ground and looks at John; the dog is panting heavily.

   “Are you ok boy?” John asks with a calm, happy, yet concerned tone. He’s always loved dogs though he’s never had one; growing up or otherwise.

   The dog only stares at John. If John didn’t know better he would’ve said the dog looked like he was contemplating his question. John positions himself up onto his knees and since the dog has made no move to be aggressive, he feels comfortable enough to start running his hands along the dog’s body, across his ribs, under his belly and softly touching and carefully bending the animals legs; checking for basic signs of injury. “Where’s your master hm? How come you don’t have a collar?” John mumbles these words to himself, feeling a little concerned for this dog. He doesn’t seem like a stray, and if he is he hasn’t been one for long; his coat is too smooth and well cared for.

   John is no Veterinarian, but there are some things that are mostly universal to any medical profession; like how to tell if a bone is broken, or to listen when their patient makes any indication they’re in pain. During his examination, the dog only seems to be mildly tense. John can detect no sign of broken bones or anything else. If anything, the dog seems better off than John; the only thing that he’s unclear about is why the dog was running so fast in the first place and didn’t even stop when he reached John. Looking back, John doesn’t think he even noticed him.

   “Well, I don’t believe you’re injured.” The dog barks at his words, and John playfully scratches behind the dogs long, floppy ears. “What should I do with you...?” John considers, continuing to stroke the dog gently.

   The dog then stands up, seemingly unhurt and starts to nudge John with clear urgency for whatever reason.

   “Hey hey, calm down. I’m getting up.” John grunts and reaches for his cane; lying on the path nearby. He stands up, wobbling just a little and settles firmly on his two feet. The pain in his head is already starting to fade, but his leg - and shoulder - are seriously throbbing. _Shit, I can’t walk far like this._ When John’s leg is aggravated, it usually needs a good half-hour before returning to a normal state. _Fuck, it isn’t even a **real** limp! _ Just a physical manifestation of his state of mind, according to his therapist in London.

   John looks down at the dog, now pacing in front of him and yipping intermittently. John briefly contemplates his options. He’s too far away from the apartment, he could just go back in a taxi or bus, but not only will his sister and her girlfriend still be occupying the place, neither of the other modes of transportation are likely to allow a dog this size and John can’t just leave him in the park. The Grill isn’t much farther, and he could ask Sarah (a friend of Harry’s and owner/manager of the restaurant) to let the dog stay in her office and give him some food to eat and water to drink. Sarah is a kind woman, and whenever John has gone to The Grill (and she’s around) she always greets him with a warm smile.

   After he arrives at the restuarant, he can figure out what to do next.

   He glances briefly in the direction he was originally heading and looks back to the dog. His decision is made.

   “Will you follow me?” John says, looking at the dog. He knows the canine can’t understand him, but he seems to be sticking around when he could’ve bolted at any time.

   The dog appears to... _nod?_ John laughs. “You’re quite intelligent aren’t you?” John shakes his head and smiles.

   He then resumes walking – ignoring the pain in his leg and shoulder every time he moves – towards the restaurant. John glances behind him, only to laugh softly when he notices the dog following him in what could be considered a prancing trot.

   At this moment, as the Prince follows this ordinary man (he really didn’t see him when he’d been running in a panic – though Mycroft would never admit he’d succumbed to panic – after jumping through the mirror. Running into the man had been quite a shock, his inability to move right away afterwards had mainly been caused by _that_ rather than any actual physical grievance.) he can’t help but think of the ridiculousness of his situation. How is he supposed to accomplish anything with fur and constrained to four legs? Well, maybe this man can be of use to him in some way.

 

_Somewhere else in Central Park..._

 

   Blabberwort, Burly and Blue Bell are striding across a vast expanse of Central Park lawn. All of them feel tremendously proud of themselves, not only did they discover a Kingdom and claim it; they’re on a quest given to them by _The Queen_. So far, they’ve had no luck finding the dog, but they’re certainly enjoying surveying their new territory and discovering all manner of new and exciting things in this strange, magical place they’ve named The 10 th Kingdom.

   Most recently, they all had an encounter with what looked like a tall stone with some sort of metal bowl upon it and a metal spout attached to it. Burly had accidently stepped on something directly in front of the stone causing water to start pouring out and Blue Bell to get soaked as a result (he’d been closely examining the metal spout at the time). Of course, Blabberwort and Burly thought this was hilarious; Blue Bell (predictably) did not.   

   Now, as they walk across a lawn, Burly – in the middle – quickly grabs the arms of his two siblings to stop them and points to a place directly in front of them. Not far away; there are two people, embraced on a bench and kissing soundly.

   “Ah.” Blub Bell whispers.

   The three of them quickly saunter forward, Burly indicating for Blue Bell to move to the left and Blabberwort to the right. They reach the bench and Burly smiles, quickly grabbing the two people by the collars of their shirts and pulling them a part. The young man and woman look at him in shock.

   “Hello!” He says, gleeful.

   Before the two people can react in anyway, Burly bashes their heads together; knocking them unconscious. He looks up at his sister and brother, the three of them start laughing.

   In less than a minute, The Trolls begin roughly investigating the belongings of the two unconscious people; turning their bags inside out, searching for anything valuable. Like good quality leather shoes.

   Blue Bell roughly yanks up the foot of the man and pulls off his shoe; he looks at it with disgust.

   “Gah! Not even leather!” He growls, tossing the shoe away. He hoists the foot of woman up and begins pulling off her shoe to inspect it.

   Blabberwort is feeling similar frustration as she tosses the remaining items out of the man’s bag. “Are there any other shoes in here?!” She yells and drops the bag.

  The man begins to regain consciousness just as Blabberwort picks up a hard, odd looking black box. She quickly uses it to hit the man, he once again falls unconscious. Just as the box makes contact with his head; some sort of music and singing voices begin emanating from within the black box. The music is slow at first but soon picks up to a faster, more energetic beat...

_...Don’t stop me now_

_I’m having a good time_

_I’m having a ball_

_Don’t stop me now_

_If you wanna have a good time_

_Just give me a call..._

 

   Blabberwort’s hands twitch in shock and all of three of the Trolls stare at the box. As the music and singing continues on, they immediately start to move their bodies with the rhythm of the unfamiliar tune; wide smiles on their faces.

   “More magic!” Burly laughs and points at the magic box in Blabberwort’s hands.

   Burly starts shaking his upper body quickly, Blue Bell is jumping up and down on the spot and Blabberwort is bobbing her head to the beat.

 

_A few minutes ago..._

 

   After walking for a couple more minutes, John finds himself briefly contemplating the possibility of keeping the dog (if he can’t figure out where he came from). But then John remembers that he’s only living here temporarily and it would be unrealistic to take the dog back with him to England, better to find a good home for him here if he can.

   John glances down briefly at the dog, now walking side-by-side with John. He’s noticed that in the last couple minutes the dog has been intermittently looking around him, as if expecting danger. And even John has grown cautious; his soldier instincts that were merely tingling in the back of his mind not long ago have now grown exponentially. It’s only after seeing the dog acting nervous that John’s suspecting maybe this has to do with the dog in some way; how though, he has no clue. 

   John can now see The Grill through a gap in the trees. _Oh thank god, I really need to sit down. Ha, now I’m really sounding like an old man._

   Distantly John can hear a song begin to play (sounds suspiciously like a song he heard not long ago), and at almost the same time the sound of a wolf howling reverberates around the Park.

   “What the hell?” There aren’t any wolves in Central Park. “Maybe I hit my head harder than I thought.” He whispers, his eyebrows pinched together in puzzlement. The dog meanwhile has stopped abruptly and is gazing in the direction the sound came from; lips pulled back slightly. _Well, maybe it isn't just me, he obviously heard it to._

   John ignores what he just heard (though his expression hasn’t changed) and walks forward several more feet and out of the Park; with the dog walking alongside him.

  The Grill is directly across the street from Central Park, so it takes very little time for John and the dog to walk across and approach the patio entrance.

   As John opens the gate and enters the outside eating area – the dog following close behind - he can see Sarah chatting with a few customers at a table not far away. As she swivels her gaze around casually, she eyes John and immediately waves. John smiles widely and walks towards her.

   “John! How wonderful to see you! Harry called to say you’d be down here tonight.”

   They embrace tightly, unconcerned with the typical restaurant activity going on around them. Sarah is one of the few sort-of-friends he’s made since being back here; he even asked her out on a date once. She’s a gorgeous woman, with a kind face and long pale brown hair; usually worn up in a ponytail. In the end, it didn’t take long for them to realize they worked better as friends, and though John was mildly disappointed he is grateful for having made a friend at least.

   “It’s wonderful to see you too.” He squeezes her tightly and then releases her.

   She smiles at his words, but then as the two of them pull apart she notices the cut on his head and her smile falls.

   “John what happened?!” 

   John laughs softly and gently touches the wound.

   “I fell when I collided with this guy.”  He smiles dryly and nods towards the dog.

   Only then does Sarah notice the golden retriever standing only a few feet from John; his gaze fixed pointedly at the forest across the road.

   “A new friend?” She asks with a smile, gesturing a hand towards the dog.  

   She then reaches into her pocket and grabs a clean tissue; wordlessly she hands it to John. He takes it with a grateful smile and wipes the blood from his cut.

    “Yeah, I found him in the Park. No sign of an owner, and no collar.” John turns to look at the dog. “Luckily he came out of the collision in better shape than me.”

   Sarah nods and crosses her arms and eyes the dog with interest.

   “Quite the princely looking fellow isn’t he?” She grins.

   At this the dog abruptly turns around and looks at John and Sarah, both are watching at him curiously.

   “Well, I think he liked that.” John remarks.

   “Princely?”

   John nods, and the dog walks towards her, sniffing.

   “Hey Prince.” John smiles and reaches down to pet the dog.

  The dog doesn’t seem to mind, though John notices he’s still eyeing his surroundings very intensely.

   “Maybe that’s his name.” Sarah also pets him.

   “Could be.” John gently pats the dog once more and straightens up. Throughout this whole exchange the pain in his leg has been only a faint echo, now that John has remembered what it felt like when he fell, the pain is back and John groans loudly. He tries to ignore it and looks at Sarah. “There’s actually something I want to ask you.”

   “Anything John, what would you like?”

   “Well, I would’ve taken the dog back to Harry’s place for now, but I seem to have aggravated my old army injury when I fell and I wouldn’t have been able walk back all that way.” John pauses, Sarah nods; watching him intently. “So since I was heading here anyway, I was wondering if it would be alright if Prince and I could rest here for a little while, and maybe have some food.” 

   “Of course, though...dogs aren’t actually allowed in the restaurant, but he could stay in my office while you eat and rest.” Sarah says. “I’ll get Prince some food and water as well.” She adds with a smile.

   John inwardly cringes at the word ‘rest’. He’s tried not to focus on the fact that he has now become a man that needs rest when his shoulder and psychosomatic leg injury get aggravated, a life where monotony and the occasional good day are commonplace. He craves the gift of a healthy body and a life balanced with excitement, adrenaline and real peace. Right now, he has none of those. And most of all, he hates that much his time is spent pitying himself.

   He angrily shakes himself out of those thoughts and focuses on Sarah.

   “That would be fantastic, thank-you.” He says, forcing a smile.

   “It’s no problem.” Sarah shakes her head. “Alright, let’s get the two of you set up.” If she was aware of his inner turmoil just then, she doesn’t say anything; she simply smiles, nods and gestures for John to follow her.

   The Prince on the other hand had been watching John intently, though arrogant, Mycroft he is a keen observer when it serves him. And he’s aware that something dark flashed across the man’s – John’s face a few seconds ago... _curious._

   Mycroft puts aside the fact that he’s been faced with more bizarre, strange things that defy comprehension and logic within the last several hours than he has his entire life, and follows after John and Sarah.

 

_In Central Park...._

 

   Not long after Blabberwort, Burly and Blue Bell abandoned the couple (still unconscious, the only item of their belongings missing; the magic box) they continued their search – with more focus this time – for the Prince.

   It doesn’t take long for them to spot an awfully smooth, hard path running through the area. They rush through a cluster of bushes and come up directly alongside the path, weapons brandished.

   “There!” Burly calls out to his sister and brother. He points to an odd shaped brown lump in the middle of the path. “There’s been an incident.” He says, slowly walking towards to where he’d previously pointed.

   “Aha! Looky look!” Blabberwort squeals and immediately rushes over to pick up the brown lump; which turns out to be made of leather.

   Blue Bell immediately looks around at the ground where the brown object had been a few seconds ago.

   “Dog hairs!” Blue Bell says with excitement, eagerly pointing at the ground and at what Blabberwort is currently examining closely; to which a few long, golden dog hairs are precariously attached.

   “Cowskin...nicey nice! Squeaky clean!” Blabberwort says, clearly elated.

   Burly is hovering around her shoulder with interest, he reaches out to touch it but Blabberwort keeps moving it out of his reach. Blue Bell quickly snatches the brown leather out of her hands. Blabberwort and Burly immediately both grab at him, making angry noises and each trying to get the piece of leather.  Soon though, after it becomes apparent that Blue Bell won’t be giving up the leather easily, both Blabberwort and Burly are close behind their brother and looking closely at the leather material and the odd bits and bobs within.

   After Blue Bell yanks several pieces of paper from within the folds of the leather, he then pulls out a card that appears to have a name on it. All three of the Trolls eyes are glued to it, and the oddly folded piece of leather falls out of Blue Bells hands.

   “If found, please return to John Watson. Apartment 2006 - ” At this point Blabberwort tries to snatch the piece of paper out of Blue Bells hands, he growls and knocks her hand away. “ – number 2, east eighty onest street.”

   “Eighty onest street?” Blabberwort and Bluebell repeat at the same time, both of look somewhat baffled.

   “Yeah that’s what it says, eighty onest.” Blue Bell bites his lip and stares once more at the card.

   “Well how about this way?!” Burly exclaims and gestures to their right.

   The other two nod.

   “Ok, come on!” Blabberwort says.

   All three of them instantly start running.

 

_Also in Central Park..._

 

   The scents are getting stronger; people, a horrid oil smell, brick, and most importantly the Prince, the mysterious teasing smell of a human man that still has his insides in chaos (a section of his mind is now becoming entirely devoted to examining the new scent and it’s increasingly annoying and yet _delicious_ affects on him) and the sweet, husky scent of... _meat._ From the various other smells surrounding that particularly strong one, he deduces a common eating place of some sort is nearby. Possibly a restuarant.

   Sherlock is quickly reminded of the fact that he hasn’t had decent food for months, and though he loathes to give any form of satisfaction to his body (or anything that can overpower his mind) - his “transport” as he calls it – when he could be focusing on more important matters (like finding the Prince) he is a Half-Wolf. And Half-Wolfs are legendary for their appetite and inability to function at peak efficiency without a full-rounded, primarily meat meal.

   Besides, Sherlock’s senses tell him The Prince and the mysterious man headed in this direction not long ago, however their scent is quickly getting lost amongst all the millions of foreign smells here. He scrunches up his nose in disgust, as far as he’s concerned, the wretched smells in this place are mostly repulsive and he hopes never to have to venture here again...wherever _here_ is.

   One thing has become obviously clear to Sherlock (other than the fact that his condition is improving rapidly due to being back out in open air, though he still feels somewhat weak from lack of proper food), it was clear the minute he stepped through the mirror. Wherever he is, it isn’t in the 9 Kingdoms. He’s never given much thought to myths – pointless, usually the type of things frequently believed in by fools – but the evidence before his eyes has lead him to one conclusion. He must have somehow entered the mythical 10th Kingdom and as his axiom proves, ‘once you’ll rule out the impossible, whatever remains however improbable must be true’, this applies now more than ever.

   Sherlock growls in frustration and after walking through a couple more sets of trees, he sees the common eating place he’d deduced earlier. A large, neon red sign stands out on the building; “The Grill” Sherlock huffs, _not very original, but from the smell certainly accurate._

   “Work and pleasure.” Sherlock whispers, breathing deep once more – _meat, the Prince_ (he inwardly snarls) _and this mysterious man_ _whose smell is rapidly becoming more appealing than the meat (though this is most likely because it is something entirely new to me)_  – he grins and walks towards The Grill.

   He crosses the busy (busy with what he assumes to be this area’s mode of transportation; the cause of the smell that is so detestable to Sherlock) street and soon comes up to an outside area in front the entrance to the restaurant.

   The smell of dog is definitely stronger here; he must’ve stood still for a longer period of time. However, Sherlock is unable to tell whether he is still here or not or if the smell is lingering from having been here recently; because of the frustratingly potent amount of other odours, it is very difficult for Sherlock to figure out.

   Sherlock growls in frustration and opens a cold metal gate. He enters an area littered with tables and sees an empty one in a far corner. He sits on the solitary chair next to it and rests his elbows with an elegant grace on the smooth, wooden surface of the table; he then lightly presses the flats of his palms together in his typical pose of thought and lightly rests the tips of his fingers beneath his chin.

   He knows The Queen would want him to ignore his Wolf instinct to gorge and focus more intently on searching for The Prince. He however, can't bring himself to care what she would prefer. His brilliant mind may be reversing the atrophying process from prison at a delightfully quick rate, but he needs to be in perfect condition; and he’ll do what he has to in order to achieve that (Sherlock will figure out what to do about payment later, child’s play to deduce food must be paid for in a place like this). Right now, the only way to accomplish that is to satisfy his stomach. His insides roil in both anticipation and annoyance at the thought, though he would prefer not to have to eat at all, he can’t deny that he loves the wonderful, fresh flavour of meat; sheep, cows, pigs, chickens...most anything really. He hasn’t eaten anything human (or akin to the species) for years, he would if the situation demanded it though. Even though Sherlock looks human and the Half-Wolf physiology is incredibly similar to a human; he most decidedly is not human, not completely.

   Sherlock sets about repairing the emaciated sections of his mind palace (whenever he enters his mind palace he is inevitably very unaware of his outer surroundings) while he waits for someone to arrive and take his order.

 

 

   After settling – mostly - Prince down in Sarah’s office (the dog seemed mildly distressed about being left in the room and made a very odd reaction to the bowls of water and leftover meat one of the waitresses – a young woman named Candy - put down for him; he’d recoiled and tapped the bowls with one of his paws, and John swears he frowned and snorted as well) John is making his way through the restaurant from Sarah’s office. Even though he hasn’t had the chance to sit down, he breathes a sigh of relief when he feels the throbbing in his leg and shoulder lessen a little. He walks through the kitchen, the cooking staff smile and wave. John politely does the same back. As he exits, John walks through, cane in hand, through the inside area of the restaurant and exits back onto the patio.

   He immediately heads over to the table Sarah had set aside for him (a small two person table in the far right corner of the patio) and sits down; stretching his leg out and resting his cane against the table. Sarah already let the chef know what he wanted, so all John has to do now is wait.

   John casually lets his gaze wander. His eyes settle just a little bit longer on a young-looking man sitting at a table near the other end of the patio several tables away. John wonders if he’s praying, but his eyes are open and staring with frightening intensity straight ahead. There’s something very eerie about the way that man is staring without blinking, his eyes unmoving and his posture statue still. John inadvertently shivers and turns his gaze away. He then starts thinking on what to do with the dog him and Sarah have now named Prince.

 

_On the edge of Central Park..._

 

   The Trolls holds their weapons tightly as they leap from behind a cluster of trees and land directly by the side of a road.

   After having a minor difference of opinion on how to find Eighty onest street (Burly came up with an idea Blabberwort quickly responded to by smacking him upside the head, which he responded to by jumping her, which Blue Bell responded to by trying to pull them apart, which Burly and Blabberwort responded to by jumping _him_...so relatively minor for Trolls) they finally agreed to seek out someone to “tell” them. They figure with all the candles burning in the windows of the buildings there’s bound to be people not far away.

   The trio freeze as they stare at the road on which they see very fast moving, very loud...carriages without horses? Some of them look the same, and some are significantly larger or smaller than the rest.

   They look at each other briefly before starting to walk across the road amidst all the fast moving carriages-without-horses. Loud sounds begin to echo loudly around them. Blabberwort and Blue Bell growl and hoist their weapons up high.

   Burly stumbles and one of the odd carriages nearly hits him. “Suck an elf!” He squeals and jumps back.

   “What are these things?!” Blue Bell yells.

   The siblings crowd each other in the middle of the road, and as Burly looks to his left one of the fast moving carriages comes straight towards him. It appears to slow down, but it still rams into Burly’s legs. Trolls being the abnormally sturdy beings they are, the car stops instantly and does nothing more than cause Burly to stagger slightly. The metal-looking carriage gained more damage than Burly did on impact; a metal band on the front is now severely bent and glass covering the front lights is now broken and cracked.

   Burly narrows his eyes at the man inside; the latter is clutching what looks like a plastic wheel tightly, a look of fear on his face. With an angry cry, Burly raises his ax high into the air and brings it down with incredible strength upon the weird looking carriage. The ax pierces the metal easily, and a miniature geyser of steam begins rising through the hole just made by Burly’s weapon. He slowly turns around; both Blabberwort and Blue Bell are staring at him with surprised expressions.

   “Our carriage is here!” He says smugly with a laughing lilt to his voice, gesturing to the stopped carriage and very afraid driver.

   Blabberwort and Blue Bell laugh loudly.

 

_Back at The Grill...._

 

   Sherlock is jarred from his mind palace repair session when a blond woman - _in a frilly dress with a pad of paper and what looks to be a writing device poised over said paper, she's decidedly unintelligent – well, compared to most – low self esteem grinds her teeth tripped down three steps of stairs on her way to work – it is obvious she works here, I wonder if people who serve food in places like this in the 9 Kingdoms are still referred to as waitresses/waiters here – an incessant chewing gum habit and a sex addict. A faint smell of dog, the prince, is also evident on her clothing. She’s pet him recently._ – walks loudly over to the table Sherlock is sitting at.

   As she focuses her gaze on him (though she appears to be somewhat confused by his entire – Sherlock makes a mental note to find some new clothes that haven’t been withering in prison for months), her pulse begins to beat a little faster and she smiles. Sherlock suppresses the urge to roll his eyes and smiles –a very fake smile – back.

   “Hello sir, my name is Candy. What can I get you?”

_The ability to completely tune out idiots._

   “Two top sirloin steaks, raw. And if you have it, a lamb roast; also raw. No vegetables with either. ” Sherlock says in a monotone voice and returns his gaze forward.

   “Uh - ” The waitress hesitates, obviously confused.

   “Surely you heard me.” This time Sherlock does roll his eyes and once again faces the waitress. “I would rather not repeat myself a third time, so listen carefully; two top sirloin beef steaks, raw. A lamb roast, raw. I cannot emphasise enough on _raw,_ r-a-w, raw. I don’t want vegetables of any variety to accompany either dish.” Sherlock pauses. “And for my beverage I would like three glasses of warm milk.” He adds as an afterthought. Warm milk is the beverage most preferred by Half-Wolfs.

   The waitress, Candy, nods dumbly. She very clearly thinks this man is crazy as well as attractive (gathering from the set of her mouth, widening of her eyes and the slight twitch of her jaw).

   “I – don’t know if I can do that sir.” She tries to look apologetic.

    Sherlock frowns.

   “It really isn’t that difficult, if anything it is less work for the cook. I would like my beef and lamb raw.” _Good grief this is tedious._   “Uncooked, fresh, the most underdone meat can be, in other words; r-a-w, raw. Really, if getting my order right is this difficult for you maybe you should choose a profession less challenging than being a _waitress_.” Sherlock elongates the word waitress, very noticeably mocking her. Others would probably describe what he just said as rude, but Sherlock is not feeling particularly patient at the moment.

   The waitress nods slowly; her eyes not quite meeting his, an expression of hurt on her face. Sherlock sighs inwardly. _Humans (everyone really), so agonizingly sensitive, though Lestrade would probably say that I’m just cruelly insensitive. It matters little._

 _“_ A-Alright, I’ll put your order through right away sir.” She quickly writes down his order and turns to rush away.

   Suddenly, Sherlock has an idea. He quickly puts on his most convincing, sincere face complete with tentative smile, and reaches out to gently touch her arm before Candy can leave. She looks slightly taken back, but enchanted none-the-less by the smile Sherlock is showing her.

   “I am very sorry, I’m afraid I’m quite...troubled right now. Still, that is no reason to take it out on you. I apologize.” Sherlock hopes this sounds genuine; he is out of practice after all. He puts on a good show of being genuinely distressed just to be certain. The waitresses hurt face melts into a soft smile and nods. Sherlock lets go of her arm and continues. “I was walking in the park not long ago when my dog slipped out of his collar and leash, he bolted in this direction and I haven’t been able to find him. He has long golden hair, have you seen him at all? I thought I saw a man with him not long ago...?” Sherlock looks up at her with a hopeful expression.

   Her smile immediately grows wider.

   “Oh so it’s yours!” She exclaims with surprise.  Good, she believes him. The waitress rests a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder – he resists the urge to shrug her off. “I’ll tell John.” She smiles and pats his shoulder once more before she turns around.

_Ah, so the man this mysterious scent belongs to is named John...how...normal._

   Sherlock watches her as she looks towards an empty table about 20 feet away. He observes her face and she chews her lip in confusion. She then walks away and enters the main door of the restaurant.

   Sherlock quickly gets up and follows her.

 

_A few minutes ago...._

 

   Just a few seconds after John settled down at this table and turned his gaze away from the ethereal looking man, he notices Sarah reappear and make her way towards him. She reaches him and places a hand on his shoulder. John looks at her with slight confusion, and then he notices the unease clear on her face.

   “Sarah what’s wrong?” He asks, his doctor concern and a soldier’s instinct to protect kicking in.

   “Prince won’t stop crying and scratching at my door, I’ve tried calming him down but I haven’t been able to do any good. I’m sorry John, I know you’re waiting for your food but could you come and see if you can do anything?” She asks.

   “Oh of course, no problem.” John says with reassurance and stands up.

   Sarah smiles.

   “Thanks John! The poor guy doesn’t sound happy, I would go with you but something’s come up and I need to run.” Sarah makes a general gesture and reaches for something in her pocket.

   “Alright, nothing wrong I hope?”

   “Oh no, just some minor family troubles.” Sarah says as she pulls out a single key. “Could you do me a big favor?”

   “Of course.” John nods.

   “Whenever you’re finished here, would you mind locking up my office when you go?” She asks politely.

   John smiles.

   “No problem.” John reaches his hand out and Sarah puts the key in his palm. John places the key in his left jacket pocket... _bollocks_. His wallet is missing, must've fallen out when he fell on the path. _Not much I can do about that now._

   “Thanks again John, really, you’ve been super.” She smiles wide and gives him a hug. John hugs her back. “I hope your leg and shoulder feel better soon and that the dog will be ok.” Sarah gives John one final squeeze before pulling away.

   “You’re welcome, but it really it’s no trouble. I’ll let you know what happens with Prince.” John says with a smile, very much ignoring her concern about his leg (which is, thankfully, feeling genuinely better now).

   “Good. Take care John.” Sarah pats him on the shoulder and starts walking towards the gate restaurant exit.

   “You too!” John calls out to her.

   Sarah waves and quickly begins walking down the side-walk.

 

_In the restaurant office..._

 

   Mycroft growls – literally – in frustration as he continues pawing at the door. _I’ll never take opposable thumbs for granted ever again._

   That relatively ordinary woman left not long ago, the Prince suspected to go and fetch John; which is what Mycroft wants her to do. He hadn’t wanted to resort to whimpering, but he had little choice. So, he whimpered and cried. He needed to get someone’s attention.

   Mycroft can’t predict exactly how John will react, but from what the Prince has observed of this John so far, he’s more likely to respond in the manner Mycroft needs to him to rather than the woman named Sarah. Admittedly, what Mycroft did with the dirt (that had fallen out after he knocked over the single plant in the woman’s office) is a risk, and he’d gotten his paw _horribly_ filthy as a result. 

   Prince Mycroft is desperate, he really needs to get out of here and find some way of getting his body back. He could’ve escaped the company of John and Sarah easily, but he has no familiarity whatsoever with the area he arrived in since jumping through the mirror and he – he might as well admit it - is most assuredly a dog and more vulnerable in some ways. He needs an ally, and right now this John is the best this lost Prince of the 4th Kingdom has. Mycroft considers the fact John is also a doctor and recently served in an army (an easy conclusion to come to, even in his dog form, plus he heard John mention an old army wound and from the way the man examined his body – efficiently, naturally as if he'd had professional experience, though still slightly uncertain - not an animal doctor then) and that can only be beneficial should Mycroft become injured, or they’re unable to avoid contact with the three Trolls and this Half-Wolf that has curiously come after him as well, curious since he has not come into contact with a Wolf for 8yrs. The last time was an experience he would rather not ponder over. Also because when the Wolf and he made eye-contact in the storage room Mycroft sensed as though he’d met him before. However he couldn’t remember, so he’d pushed that distracting feeling away and then jumped through the mirror.

   And now he is _locked_  in this ridiculous excuse for an office. Really, the study he uses at his castle is far superior.

   The Prince suddenly hears footsteps; _John, gathering from the sound of his cane_ _hitting the floor._ He quickly backs away and sits next to the dirt spread on the floor.

 

   John hears the cries and pawing once he enters the short hall leading to Sarah’s office. As he reaches the office door though, both sounds cease. John frowns and reaches into his pocket to pull out the key. With quick movements he unlocks the door and steps inside.

   His eyes fall immediately to Prince.

   “Are you ok boy?” John says, trying to sound comforting.

   Prince barks and lifts his paw slightly to point to his left. John, feeling both amazed and confused, looks in that direction.

   “What the...” John sucks in a sharp breath and unconsciously grips his cane tighter.

   There, lightly traced in a spread out pile of dirt, are words in big capital letters that read;

 

   DANGER

 

   At first John thinks that a person did this, but then he notices the clear claw marks in the lettering... _but, that doesn’t make any sense._

   “I guess you wrote that?” John nods towards the words.

   Prince barks.

   John freezes as a strange and frankly impossible thought occurs to him. He raises an eyebrow and watches Prince carefully. “Bark once.”

   Prince barks once.

   John’s mouth twitches at the corner. He really must be going mad if he’s seriously thinking this dog can understand him.

   “Ok, bark twice.”

   Prince barks twice.

 _Ok...I definitely didn’t expect that._ John is shocked, as soon as Prince did exactly as he requested John released his cane in surprise and it clattered to the dirt ridden ground. He now stares at Prince.

   Other than the cane, John gives no outward sign of surprise; inside though he’s seriously considering getting an intense psychological evaluation. _This is insane._

   “Can you...understand everything I’m saying?” John asks, his voice notably quieter than before.

   Prince doesn’t respond in anyway, and for a brief moment John is ready to write off what happened as a one-time bizarre occurrence, but then John watches with widening eyes as Prince stretches out one of his legs and writes ( _writes?!_ ) the word ' _yes'_ on the outer edge of the dirt with his paw.

   John calmly reaches out to rest his hand against the doorway and breathes deeply. _Ok, so the dog can understand me...right. John Watson, you have officially cracked._

   Temporarily putting aside his skepticism, John decides to play along and looks once more at the original message. He frowns.

   “So, are _you_ in danger? Here?” He asks. This is rapidly turning into a very interesting night out for John. His soldier instincts have sharpened considerably within the last couple minutes.

   The Prince stands up and barks. He then rushes forward and bites a mouthful of John’s jeans. “Oi!” John automatically says, and is briefly thankful that the dog didn’t bite his skin instead. Before he gets a chance to do anything in response, Prince begins dragging him out of the room; good leg first. “Whoa! Stop!” John tugs on his own leg for emphasis.

   Prince releases him, but doesn’t look happy about it. He barks again. John straightens his jacket and bends down to pick up his cane. Once back in his grip, John tests his weight on his leg...seems fine, his wounded shoulder is still a little achy though.

   John straightens his posture into one worthy of a military Captain.

   “Please do not bite my leg.” John looks at Prince firmly. Prince barks and jerks his head to somewhere further down the hall, towards the back exit (the way John, Prince and Sarah entered originally) and away from the Restaurant kitchen; which is the direction John came from.

   John glances briefly at the exit sign and then at the dog. “You want us to leave now.” The dog nods. “Because you’re in danger here?” The dog nods again. John has no idea why the dog believes himself to be in danger here, but who is he to question the word of a dog that can apparently _understand_ and _write_ English? ...John resists the urge to laugh at the ludicrousness of the situation and sighs instead. “Ok, great, well then...let’s go.” John walks out of Sarah’s office and closes the door behind them (in the haze of the last few minutes, John has forgotten he needed to lock the door). Prince has already sprinted down the hall and is waiting by the exit door.

_Well, I guess dinner will have to wait._

 

   Just as John and Prince set a brisk pace away from The Grill, Candy walks towards Sarah’s office; Sherlock not far behind her.

   Candy lightly knocks on the door and opens it. It is then she notices Sherlock.

   “Oh! You can’t come in here.” She looks up at him.

   Sherlock restrains himself from rolling his eyes at the waitress’s attempt to block him. He looks over her shoulder and around the room; the dog was here not long ago, so was the man – John. Sherlock’s gaze drops to the floor, he immediately notices the dirt – from an odd looking; tall, skinny plant with wide long leaves. The plant is now collapsed completely on its side upon the floor – and the word ‘DANGER’, evidently written within the dirt by the Prince. _Ah, so he’s somehow managed to initiate proper contact with John. I hate to admit it, but...clever._

   Sherlock pushes past the waitress – as politely as he can - and casually looks towards the two bowls still full of food and water. He clasps his hands behind his back and by use of his foot; he smoothly wipes away the blazing word.

   The waitress watches him, though keeps her gaze rather keenly on his face so she is unaware of what Sherlock just erased.

   “Um, he must’ve gone home and taken the dog with him. Maybe he hurt himself when he fell.” The waitress curls a single lock of blond hair behind her right ear.

   “Oh dear, I hope he’s alright.” Sherlock says, and walks towards the waitress – Candy. He closes his eyes and casually takes a deep breath, making it appear as though he’s distressed, though in reality he is intensely sniffing the area... _damn._ They couldn’t have left more than 5 minutes ago, however in this environment where millions of heavy, superfluous scents outweigh the ones of beneficial use, John’s and the Prince’s scents are greatly weakened (Sherlock allows himself a few seconds to focus on John’s scent alone, the effect it has on his body hasn’t dimmed in the slightest – he inwardly growls – and the section of his mind that is still analyzing the effect is even more frantic...he can taste this man’s scent on his tongue and – Sherlock shivers – he truly is delicious...interesting) and he won’t be able to follow them when they have five minutes head start. Which is even more insulting to Sherlock considering this man walks with a limp and a cane (easily deduced by marks left in the dirt, and the fact that by the scent decay he can tell no one else has been here since the dirt was spilled other than John and the Prince), if he were in his own element he could track them no problem. But everything here is unfamiliar, and because there is so much it’ll take even his hyperactive, mile-a-minute brain to process it all. He’ll have to find out where this John lives the traditional way, and then figure out a plan to enter his home without drawing much attention to himself.

   He’s already planning what to do when he opens his mouth to talk to the waitress. “Well, why don’t you tell me where he lives and then I’ll be able to properly thank him for finding my companion.” He smiles as widely and as authentically as possible; purposefully using the tone of voice that used to get him into the most private and restricted areas – when the need arose, and when breaking his way in wouldn’t work - back before his prison time.

   “Well...I – I can’t tell you where he lives.” The waitress is clearly flustered ( _pupils dilated, heart rate elevated and breathing rhythm has notably increased_ ), and on the edge of giving in despite her words. “I don’t even know who you are.”

   Sherlock knows how to get what he wants.

   He subtly reaches behind her, while leaning his face closer to hers, and closes the office door; shutting them out from the eyes of anyone that might happen to pass by.

   “Ah. You can tell me...” He lowers his voice an octave, the effect it has on this silly woman is immediate; Sherlock smiles as he sees her shiver.

   She opens her mouth and closes it again, and gulps nervously. Still she doesn’t say anything. Sherlock – resisting the urge not to be sick – leans down and kisses her softly. Anything remotely romantic or sentimental in anyway has never been his area, even as a child. And he curses the few weaknesses he allowed himself then. However, he did eventually realize the benefit a little subtle seduction or apparent friendliness can achieve when all else fails, though it was always faked and Sherlock would rather not have to bother, but, such is the way of the dull masses.

   He can feel her melt beneath him and he grins inwardly in triumph. He pulls away and waits for her to talk. Breathless, she quietly tells him John’s address and subsequently his last name.

_John Watson; a very ordinary name for a man that is so quickly causing intolerable pandemonium within my mind._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you may recognize it, though in case you're wondering the song the Trolls hear from the "magic box" is "Don't Stop Me Now" by the timeless, fabulous band 'Queen' <3
> 
> This week will be relatively busy for me, so it might not be until the weekend before I am able to post another chapter.
> 
>  


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am very sorry for how long this has taken! :( There are several reasons for that, and pretty much all of them boil down to 'life getting in the way', the other reasons are there were a few roadblocks in the chapter that I couldn't decide how to get around for a little while, but eventually I did (obviously :P) and the other....well, the original chapter outline I had for chapter five turned out to be too long, however I decided to just keep writing and see...so when finished it turned out that it ended up being longer than all the previous chapters combined xD ...my bad! :P So, since that is way too long for one chapter I'm splitting it into three, all of which will be posted either today or within the next few days. I hope the big updates make-up for the lack of new chapters in the last few weeks!  
> As always, I don't own BBC Sherlock or The 10th Kingdom, all credit goes to the writers of both!  
> Also, a reminder that this is unbetaed so all mistakes that escape editing are my own! I hope they're not too annoying :P  
> Anyway, enough of my rambling, enjoy! ;)

**Chapter 5**

 

    “Well, this is where I live.” John says while looking up at the relatively ordinary apartment building. Even though this night has been one of the most bizarre of his life, he had a stroke of luck when he happened to not only hail a cab that agreed to allow Prince in, but also the driver of the cab eats regularly at The Grill and recognized John so he agreed to forgo the cab fare (since John had lost his wallet – John already made a mental note to deal with that soon, luckily most of John’s valuable ID wasn’t in the wallet at the time he lost it in the Park, mostly it contained money) so long as John promised to arrange a free meal for him. He readily agreed.

    Now, standing in front of the slightly old – yet tall - brick building, John is mostly trying to comprehend the fact that he is talking to a dog that appears to understand him. And also trying to guess what on earth all this “danger” business is about.

    As if in accordance with his thoughts, Prince barks. John looks down at him with a slight frown. “This is crazy, how can I...even be talking to you?” John mutters, Prince then makes a few odd successions of barks in response; John sighs and shakes his head. “That was a rhetorical question.” John takes a few steps, cane in hand, up the stairs leading to the building’s entrance. “Besides, though you may be able to understand me,  _I_ can’t understand  _you_...guessing is the most I can manage.”

    John then reaches the front door and pushes it open. He pauses and waits for Prince to walk through first. He does...in a rather princely prancing way John notes with an amused smile, but what John doesn’t notice is that Prince is visibly frowning, the dog version of a pout, and has been ever since hearing what John just said. He follows Prince inside and lets the glass door swing shut behind them.   

    When they reach the single elevator, John stops and presses the up button. He watches with interest as Prince slowly walks towards the elevator door and sniffs it curiously, the way one might do if they were investigating a UFO that crashed and were more than a little cautious about approaching it.

    John thinks that the dog has never seen an elevator before. As that thought crosses his mind, the elevator doors suddenly open. Prince yelps loudly and leaps backwards. John stifles a laugh and steps inside, when Prince doesn’t follow him John presses the hold open button and looks at the confused looking dog with a comforting expression.

    “It’s ok boy, this is just an elevator. It’ll lead us up to the apartment I’m living in.” John nods, with a calm smile. Prince appears almost skeptical, but he does walk forward and slowly enters the elevator. “There you go.” John releases the button and the doors automatically shut. Prince jumps up a little in surprise. John furrows his brow a little and presses the number of Harry’s floor.

    As the elevator starts moving, John watches Prince and that feeling of being mystified by all that has happened tonight is strong. _Well, at least I'm not bored._

    The elevator stops after barely seconds. As the doors open Prince jumps out, clearly eager to be elsewhere. John snorts and walks out normally.

    Originally, he had been planning to eat (John’s stomach rumbles at the thought) and then possibly visit his grandmother. But with the arrival of Prince and the possibility – however slim – of danger John temporarily has forgone his original plan for a mostly new one. His first instinct in any crisis situation or something similar is to assess the danger and to protect those that need his protection if he is not alone. Right now, he can’t really assess the danger in this particular situation for various reasons; however he can protect this dog that he is swiftly growing an attachment to. Right now, his idea is to retrieve what money he left in the apartment, his passport (the piece of identification he didn’t have in his wallet when he lost it), hopefully gain some insight on what the bloody hell is going on and figure out what to do with the dog. Somehow, John senses it won’t be as easy as finding a good home for him.  

    John also hopes he won’t walk in on anything he’ll have to repress later, his sister and her girlfriend having sex for instance. If Mary is still there, John will get what he needs and quickly leave (and cross the bridge of what to do then when he gets to it), if she isn’t...maybe John could find some food, and convince Prince to eat and drink some water as well.

    John walks steadily, the pain of his phantom limp and aches of his shoulder a thankfully distant feeling.  As he turns the corner of the hallway leading towards the apartment, Prince following close beside him, he can feel the dog tense. John finds himself tensing as well. He’s not sure why, but his instincts are telling there is something...not quite right, John can feel it like heavy lead swirling in his stomach. He holds onto his cane a little tighter and walks a bit more slowly down the hallway.

   As he cautiously approaches Harry’s apartment door, he suddenly stops and he can feel his heart pounding fast within his chest.  _Oh no..._

   The door has been literally torn apart; bits of dark wood hang precariously on its hinges, the rest is spread out in splinters on top of the old welcome mat and the door knob lies on the floor attached to a large piece of door.  _What – Who could’ve done this?_  John’s wonder at what the hell happened is quickly muffled by a stronger thought all together.    “Harry.”

    John quickly rushes forward, dropping his cane as he runs to the door, and forces himself through the splintered opening of what is left of it. As soon as he steps inside he notices _everything_ has been torn apart, the sofa cushions tossed away, the shoes usually right by the door are now scattered everywhere and the few pictures that were on the walls lay on the floor amongst broken glass.  _Burglars?_   _  
_

Just then John notices Harry, perfectly still in her recliner... _asleep? Unconscious?...Oh please not dead!_  Fear pulses through John’s body as he does his best to ignore his annoyingly persistent limp while carving a path through the disarray of the living room. He reaches Harry and immediately presses his fingers to her inner wrist, desperately searching for a pulse. Almost immediately he finds the slightly slow, though still normal pulsation of Harry’s heart pumping blood. He bends down to feel for her breath... _she's breathing._ The exhalation of relief that rushes out of him is almost painful.

    At that moment, John rapidly notices four things that he didn’t register in his haste to see if his sister was alright; the bottle of Vodka - with only a small amount of liquid left John notes with a painful throb of anguish – hanging loosely by the tips his sister’s fingers, and a small amount of... _pink dust?_   (John frowns) Is lightly sprinkled across Harry’s torso. The also appears to be no sign of Mary. John also notices the sounds of strange, gruff sounding voices coming from his sister’s bed room.

    John swiftly becomes hyper-aware of everything, he decides that his sister is alright for the moment and he slowly starts making his way towards the voices; his stealth instincts kicking in. Without thinking about it, John reaches for his gun...only to remember that he had to leave his gun behind in England.

    “Shit.” John mutters.

    He steps around the chair his sister is occupying and makes his way closer - careful to make as little noise as possible – towards the sound of those voices. As he edges nearer, he can figures out the voices belong to two males, but there’s something odd about them John can’t quite place.

    John slowly passes by the kitchen. When beside the door to his sister’s bed room, he plasters himself against the wall and slowly moves along it, his whole body tense and ready to act if the need arises. John only hopes that his wounded body won’t fail him.

    John can hear footsteps frantically moving about the room, and the sounds of objects being thrown around. The voices are much clearer now; John stills his body completely and focuses on what they’re saying.

    “Look! Here they are!” A rough, male voice cries with obvious excitement.

    _What is he talking about?_ John is fairly certain Harry has nothing of particular value, now that John is thinking about it this whole thing reeks of somehow being connected with what has happened throughout the night. It could be coincidence, but John doesn't think so. How it could be connected...he has no idea and John quickly shakes himself out of the thought. Either way, at the present moment it doesn't matter.  _Focus John focus, deal with the enemy._

    “Soft cow...nicey nice.” The same voice speaks again, almost reverently.

     John bends his head down slightly and turns to peer through the crack of the slightly open door.

      _What the hell?_

    John can’t see very much from this angle, but what he can see has him struggling to bury a rather inappropriate urge to laugh, because really, nothing about what is going on is remotely hilarious... _damn it John Watson! Control yourself! Now is not the time._

    In the room there are two strange looking men that appear to be wearing incredibly realistic masks; both bulbous and somewhat grotesque. The men’s statures are quite different; one is very tall and the other is shorter than John, though they both seem to be wearing predominantly leather clothing. The tall one has his pants pulled up and is walking around in small circles while wearing Harry’s bright red stilettos, of which the width is far too skinny and the length way too short for the absurd largeness of the man’s feet.

    “Hello there!”

    John freezes at the sound of this new voice from behind him, female, and curses himself inwardly for not being more vigilant. _I'm really not at my best tonight._ He doesn’t panic though. John straightens up and turns around, silently hoping that his wounds and lack of practise won’t prevent him from defending himself or his sister should he need to fight. Even though John was at one point a well formed and deadly fighter, capable of some powerful self-defence, given his current physical state he doesn’t like his odds against potentially three rather large and strong looking people.

    The person standing before him – looking much like the others in the room behind him, bulbous nose, darkened, leathery skin and hair that looks like it hasn’t been combed for months - is carrying several pairs of shoes in her arms.  _So...two men trying on shoes, and this woman carrying shoes...what is this? Some kind of shoe heist?_  

    “These shoes...” She says; looking at him fiercely and sounding very angry. “They’ve been very badly cared for!” The woman takes a step towards him. John immediately ducks out of her way and back towards the living room, keeping his gaze sharp on her and his mind whirring with various tactics that will allow John to keep his sister and himself safe. John has never had to wonder whether his instinct is to fight, flee or freeze...when in a crisis, John goes into fight mode. Though he mainly acted as a doctor and didn’t fight in active combat as much as regular soldiers, that particular response (and both those skills) made him useful in many combat situations. “They’re scuffed - ” The woman tosses one of shoes in her arms away with disgust clear on her face. “ – and cracked and neglected!” She drops all of them to the floor and gaze at him with disbelief.

    John is rather befuddled (he's been feeling _a lot_ of that tonight) by the sheer _blasphemy_ in her voice, you'd think she was talking about puppies instead of shoes.

    As the back of John’s knees hit the coffee table in front the couch and beside the chair Harry is in, the two men he spotted earlier walk out of the room. The tall one no longer wearing his sister’s stilettos, instead he is carrying them and looking at them with a slight smile.

   “These are nice shoes, and so tiny!” The man grins wider, exposing a set of engorged, yellowing teeth.

   “We have hundreds of pairs at home.” The woman adds.

   “So we know what we are talking about!” The other one, the shortest, says in an awfully cheery tone.

   John hasn’t been able to figure out much about them except all three apparently have a pathological obsession with shoes. If it were any other situation John might find this funny. As it is, all he can think about is to _fight_ and _protect_. Because crazy shoe people or not, John suspects they could do serious damage if he let them. They all appear to be well muscled.

   All three each pull out a weapon from their belts and start to advance on him, he automatically moves slightly to the right – grunting in frustration when his limp (significantly less predominant at the moment, but still vaguely present) causes him to stumble slightly – and closer to his sister _.  Shit, they have swords and axes too. Though it could be worse, could be guns._

   John quickly scans the room looking for anything he can use as a weapon.

   “Who are you, why are you here and what have you done to my sister?!” John says menacingly. He takes a step towards the intruders.

   The shortest one – he’s closest to the chair - leans his head down towards Harry. Without thinking John’s right hand whips out and he grasps the man by the shirt collar in a tight, vice grip.

    “Do. Not. Touch. Her.” John bites out each word, looking unwaveringly into this mans eyes; never relinquishing his hold. The man John is holding onto so tightly is merely looking at him with an amused, overly confident smile.

    John peripherally notices the tall one roll his eyes and the woman frowning.

   “Oh she’s just sleeping; hit her with a bit of Troll dust. That’s all. Should be up soon.” The tall one says, shrugging matter-of-factly.

 _Troll - What?_  John whips his head around at that and his hold on the shortest one loosens enough for the man to easily yank himself free and join the other two.

   “Troll dust. So...you-” John says, pointedly looking at each one. “-are Trolls.” It isn’t a question, but it is an assertion of disbelief. _This...really is ridiculous, a dog that can understand and write English and now apparently “Trolls” with an unhealthy shoe obsession...fan – bloody – tastic._

   The tall one steps forward. “I am Burly the Troll, feared throughout the nine kingdoms.” He smirks widely and bows.

   The woman also steps closer and raises her arm, giving a casual bow of her head as she says; “I am Blabberwort the Troll, dreaded throughout the nine kingdoms.”

   “And I am Blue Bell the Troll, terrified throughout the nine kingdoms!” The short one that John had been previously holding onto also bows.

   John furrows his brow in confusion.  _Nine kingdoms?_

   Before John can ask or do anything else, the tall one – Burly – lungs forward and past John with incredible speed and with a loud shout he lifts up his ax and buries it within the TV; glass shatters and all manner of TV material flies everywhere from the force of the blow. John doesn't flinch.

   The tall one turns around to face John once again and with two hands he grips his ax tightly; steadily edging towards John. As John backs away, he notices the other two are in similar positions stalking towards him as well.  _Shit, shit, shit!_  John backs away deeper into the large living room, trying to slowly, subtly make his way towards the stone sculpture he spotted earlier (a rather grotesque looking thing that John always disliked, but it was a first anniversary gift from Clara to Harry that she always seemed to like so John never said anything). Luckily, the three people – or Trolls – appear to be ignoring Harry completely, all of them now focused on John; this is good in some ways, but bad in others.

   “Where is he?!” Burly growls.

   None of them, John notes with relief, seem to notice that he is purposefully moving towards an object that could potentially do some damage to them.

   “I don’t know who you’re talking about.” And he really doesn’t, but maybe he can use this to distract them, he’ll drag it out for as long as he can until he has some sort of advantage over them.

   “Prince Mycroft!” The woman shouts angrily, brandishing her little weapon.

   “Who?” John asks, genuinely confused. He takes another step to his left, just a few more steps and he can reach it...but before he can make another move closer, Burly suddenly surges forward and pins John against the closest wall with incredible strength. John immediately begins to struggle; the man’s hold only tightens further.  _Fuck he’s strong._ John would attempt to escape using his legs, but just then the tall one pulls out a dagger of some sort and holds it up to John’s neck. 

   “The dog!” The woman shouts again. Both her and the short one are now on either side of the tall one, all three of them are crowding John closely; their horrible stench very strong and near suffocating.

 _The dog? Oh....oh!_ This whole time John has completely forgotten about Prince, now being called Prince Mycroft by these three. He doesn’t have any idea where he is now, the last time John remembers seeing him is right before he entered the apartment. John has barely enough time to realize that his earlier theory about all this somehow being connected to the danger Prince referred too before John is again roughly pushed against the wall; he swallows a groan of pain as his shoulder aches sharply from the blow.

   “We are going to count to three, and then we’re going to make you into a pair of shoes!”

_Oh good grief, enough with the shoes!_

   “One! I will cut the shoes!” Burly steps away (but not far enough to allow John some room to escape without injuring himself on the various blades held up close to him by these three intruders) to replace his dagger upon his belt and then he pulls out a sharp, large looking pair of scissors; he holds them up close to John’s neck.  

    John automatically tries to move his neck away. It may not look good now, but John knows he can get out of this...some way.

   “Two! I will shave the shoes!” Blabberwort says, and roughly lifts up John’s arm. She then takes out a small, thinly curved blade and holds it against the bare skin of his wrist; sliding it with increasing pressure – though not enough to break skin – up his arm.

   John’s heart rate is steadily increasing; he can feel the blood pumping fiercely through him. In a twisted way, a part of John is grateful for this moment of danger; it’s feeding him the adrenaline he very much misses - craves and wrenching the monotony his life has become. John then glances over to Harry, and he crushes down that part of himself easily. He would rather endure an unexciting, repetitive existence than see anyone he cares about put in needless danger; especially if they have no real experience in defending themselves.

   As he returns his focus to the group crowding him dangerously close, he notices Prince cautiously stick his head through a gap in the torn apartment door; which is behind and to the left of John and the Trolls. Without thinking about it John makes a subtle movement with his hand; pointing in the direction of the kitchen.  It seems likely that if the dog can really understand what John is saying than a simple hand gesture wouldn’t be beyond his comprehension.

   The dog looks a little confused, but careful not to make any noise he enters the apartment and quietly, but quickly slinks across the room (The Trolls unseeing as they’re completely focused on John), enters the kitchen and hides out of sight.  _Ok, there's part one of my spur-of-the-moment plan B. Now...to come up with the second part._

   The short one is holding onto a short, very thin and very sharp blade up to John’s face. “Three! I will stick-” He starts to say, but John quickly interrupts him.

   “Alright! Alright, I’ll tell you where he is.” As soon as he says that, John sees Prince poke his head out from the kitchen door way; looking at him with perked ears, tense stance and what could possibly be shock. “He’s here, he's outside.” John says quickly.  _Ok, so that’s done...now what?_

   Prince’s expression of shock disappears and he quickly retreats back into kitchen.

   “Show us! Take us to him!” The tall one yells, quickly grabbing John’s arm. The woman grips John’s other arm firmly and the short one shadows them from behind as they begin roughly guiding John towards the apartment door. John tries to break free, but between the weakness in his leg and the strength of these people -  _Damn it, they must be superhuman or something!_  – John can’t force himself free.

   They reach the door, and with some force – and much grumbling on growling on the Trolls part - they barrel through the splintered hole together.

   Now in the hallway, they come to a stop and John sees all three of them begin searching the surrounding area with their eyes. Not seeing anything, they growl some more and pull John in the direction he’d originally come from and they turn a corner in the hallway. Upon not seeing anything the three Trolls growl and turn to John.

   “Where is he?!” The tall one, Burly, snarls angrily.

     _Shit, think, think!_  Another thing John is good at is keeping a relatively cool head in a crisis, so he ignores the part of his mammalian brain wanting to panic and quickly looks around; searching, hoping for something to catch his eye and inspire a way to deal with these nutcases.

   “He’s hiding.” John says, still searching. And just as the woman grasps his arm tighter, John notices something and – just as he’d hoped – inspiration strikes. John gestures with his head to the end of the hall towards the elevator doors. “Behind those doors.” He adds, trying to sound as genuine as possible, John doesn’t think he has to try very hard; all three of them seem pretty easily fooled.

   The three Trolls look at John, and then look at the elevator doors and back again.

   The two that are holding onto John grip his arms tighter and begin dragging him towards the doors; the short one still shadowing them close behind. John puts on a good show of struggling intermittently groaning and crying out “Let me go!”, trying to appear distressed so they don’t suspect he has something up his proverbial sleeve. Again, John thinks he could sport a smug grin and attempt a victory dance and they would still think they had the upper-hand; overconfidence, easy enough to spot and in the right circumstance it can be just as easy to exploit.

   They reach the elevator doors and the short one looks to be inspecting it.

   “Where’s a handle?” He mutters angrily.

_They don’t know what an elevator is? Hmm...another point in my favor._

   “Let me do it.” John tries to yank an arm away.

   “Grrrr, fine!” Burly grumbles. "We're watching you!"

   The tall one lets him go, but the other one –  _Blabberwort?_  – holds his other arm even tighter. John stretches his arm out towards the elevator doors, the short one grips his weapon tighter and growls at John before turning his gaze to the elevator doors. The other two do the same as they wait for John to open it. Because of this, they don’t see John press the little down arrow button beside it. The doors instantly open and all three jump slightly in surprise; all of them exhaling shocked gasps. The short one cringes with fear.

   “That room was not there a moment ago!” Burly says loudly and grabs John’s arm again, painfully. John’s face contorts into frustration and he resists the urge to yank his arm out as strongly as he can to uppercut the tall bugger. “You are crafty!” He hisses at John.

   John resists rolling his eyes and continues to play along; giving the supposed Trolls what he hopes is a wicked smile worthy of a magical villain.

   The tall one snarls and once again they grumble and growl with all manner of animalistic noises as they try to force themselves at once into the elevator; this causes their grip on John to lessen, and he uses this to slip out.

   They immediately look around and it doesn’t take them long to notice there is no sign of a dog anyway.

   “There’s no one in here!” The woman shouts furiously, once again pointing a sharp, thin blade in John’s direction.

   He subtly backs away from the blade, the tree confused looking Trolls now in the elevator don’t notice that John has nearly backed out of the elevator completely.

   “Oh yes he’s here!” John says quickly. “I just have to...operate the secret door-” John points vaguely towards the back of the elevator and the Trolls immediately look in that direction. “-and show you where he’s hiding.”

   With their attention distracted, John quickly curls his arm around the inside of the elevator towards the button panel, presses the one for the basement floor and quickly backs out completely.

   The doors suddenly begin to close and the Trolls leap around in surprise, and then shout in anger as they notice John on the opposite side. The closest one, the woman, reaches an arm through as the doors begin to close and tries to open them again. But before she can do so John grabs her wrist and twists it with soldier strength. She howls in pain – screaming “Suck an elf!” - and immediately retracts her arm; as a result the doors close completely.

   John immediately yanks the panel off the electrical circuit wiring for the elevator and hoping that he isn't making a huge mistake and end up electrocuting himself, he grasps a bunch of wires and pulls as hard as he can (ignoring the pain in his shoulder). Several of them disconnect in a shower of sparks and miniature flames. John flinches with a gasp as several of them land on his exposed skin, but he grins in triumph as he hears – and sees, by the bright number 3 flashing and staying there - the elevator come to a complete stop.

   He’d noticed the panel earlier when thinking about what to do. At that moment he remembered something that happened a few days ago. He was on his way back to the apartment from one of his excursions and noticed a conversation taking place between the janitor and the owner of the apartment building, right beside the elevator next to a rather flimsy looking panel laying on the ground and a bunch of exposed wiring directly adjacent to the elevator doors. The owner was seriously berating the poor man for not fixing the elevator sooner and the janitor was crouched low on the ground, poking and prodding amongst the wiring.

   John is no electrician, but when he remembered all that he desperately hoped that by pulling out/disconnecting some of the wiring would cause the elevator to stop at least for a time...a long shot since John had absolutely no idea what would happen, but it seems to have worked...now hopefully the elevator will stay that way for a long time.

   John is breathing hard an fast, his heart pumping mercilessly. “Can’t...believe...that actually worked.” He breathes deeply, and then laughs a little.

   As John turns back around, he notices Prince running out of the apartment and towards him. Prince stops in front of John and stands resolute at his feet. He looks up at John and nods head; John also notices his tail wagging a little, he quirks a smile at that and raises a brow slightly.

   “Are you saying thank-you?” John asks with a trace of mild doubt in his tone. Prince barks and nods his head once. “Oh, well uh, you’re welcome.” John smiles and reaches down to pet Princes head. Prince barks, and then jogs towards the door leading to the stairwell; this is very near to the elevator. He stops in front of the door and barks. John nods. “Right, time to get out of here. At least for now.”  John says firmly.

   However he heads back to the apartment, his leg once more causing him more pain, but before he can reach it Prince barks again. John turns around to find the dog looking at him questioningly.

   “Just getting my cane, I won’t be able to walk far without it.”  _Or with it_   _really_  (though if he has to, he will, it just pains him), John adds in his head. He tries not to let any kind of sadness show when he speaks those words.

   Prince barks again and disappears back around the corner, presumably to wait for John. John sighs and heads back towards the apartment door, he remembers dropping his cane right before entering. Sure enough there it is, not three feet from the door; the cold, metal stick that signifies a wound of war in more ways than one.

   John sighs again and leans down to pick up the cane. He glances once more at the apartment door – thinking of Harry – and turns back around. He did plan on retrieving some more pieces of identity and possibly money, however given what just happened, for whatever reason John feels the urge to protect this dog that seems to have attracted the dangerous attention of some strange people. And he can’t do that here, the dog clearly doesn't want to stay, and his instincts tell him that - even though the supposed Trolls are dealt with for now - he needs to leave the building and find somewhere safer as soon as possible. Somewhere no one who knows that dog will be likely to find him, at least temporarily. John is suddenly reminded of the fact that he didn’t sleep well last night, and exhaustion is starting to creep up on him, understandably so.

   When John reaches the door leading to the stair well, he notices Prince pacing impatiently in front of it.

   “Alright, let’s go. Harry will be alright, I think it’s you they’re after.”  _They must’ve found my wallet_ , John thinks.  How else would they have gotten his address? Wasn’t a big leap for John to make, especially if they were following the dog (and gathering by what Prince wrote – John shakes his head in baffled disbelief – in the dirt earlier, clearly he knew they were after him). He did put that address card in there in case he ever lost his wallet....he just never thought it would be found by three people with a weird shoe obsession that also claim to be Trolls that seem determined to get their hands on this dog for who knows what reason.

_Bloody hell, can this night possibly get any stranger?_

 

_Several minutes later...._

 

 _Well, that was tedious._  However, Sherlock is willing to concede to the fact however tedious the act of obtaining what he’s now wearing was, he can’t deny that he is pleased with the results. He’s walking along the street that this John Watson apparently lives on; glancing at each new building to look for the correct number.

   Just then, Sherlock strides past a window and a bright, round reflection catches his eye. He gives a small gasp and whirls around. There...barely visible through all the smog, cloud and ridiculously tall buildings is the moon. The visibility of it is annoyingly dulled, but Sherlock is grateful for the familiar sight (though he would never openly admit it, the sight is extremely comforting to him); it is thrilling and he can feel energy coiled and aching to burst. The only difference is this time, he isn’t trapped and contained... _unable_  to run, now, he is gloriously  _able_. He can’t help the joyful smile that spreads across his features. Calculating that a person running wouldn’t be too out of place here, he immediately starts doing so...and it is _glorious._

   Sherlock observes himself as he runs by a window. He is wearing the outfit he “found” (after a rather boring adventure to a clothing store he luckily passed by on his way here, at which he tested out his slightly rusted skills at thieving – fortunately with brilliant success, though the owner was rather too easily distracted so the victory was soured for Sherlock) for himself; black pants, a vivid purple shirt of a rather wonderful quality Sherlock hasn’t seen for a long time, a black blazer to match the pants, a new pair of socks (he kept his shoes for a very good reason), a bright blue scarf to ward off the cold, and his personal favourite; an ankle long, deep, dark grey coloured coat that billows out around his ankles as he runs, with the elegant collar turned up to his high-placed cheekbones. Sherlock finds the whole ensemble suits him very well.

   After he’d gotten what he wanted out of that insipid waitress, he quickly left and begun his search. Unfortunately he didn’t have time to eat a full and proper meal. On his way out of the restaurant he made do by swiping food from plates of leftovers on the tables that had yet to be cleared by the staff. He’d also stolen a thankfully sharp steak knife from one of the plates, which he subsequently used to cut his hair down to a more suitable length; which didn’t take as long as he thought. Long hair has always been inconvenient – especially considering his life style – to him and the way his hair had grown out while in prison and kept dangling in front of his eyes was horribly irritating.

   For more than one reason, Sherlock was eager to get out of the clothes he’d worn in prison. Especially since he was denied a change of clothing while incarcerated, aside from the sheer... _stink_  of them even those of dim intelligence could deduce that the clothes he’d previously worn were in serious need of replacement. So rather than risk any possible interruptions by others because of that, he’d made sure to find new – or at the very least slightly better - clothing as soon as possible.

   Now, Sherlock is prepared (in more ways than one) and has reached the proper the address. He stops running and walks up a short flight of steps and pushes the door leading into the building open. A sizable gust of John Watsons scent hits Sherlock’s nose as soon as the door is opened.  _He’s been here recently, and so has the Prince and...there is a third scent here that does not belong in the tenth kingdom...oh. Hm, this could be problematic, though likely not._  Sherlock may be out of practise in his defensive capabilities, but he is positive he can incapacitate two – no, _three_  Trolls.

   Sherlock tries to restrain his body’s reaction to John Watson's scent, but fails as the pleasurable shudder electrifies through his body and his mouth salivates. Sherlock cringes with disgust when he notices drool dribbling from the corner of his mouth. _Pathetic._ However Sherlock can’t help but be intrigued, and confused.

   Sherlock quickly catalogues the sensations and shoves them back with fierce mental strength to the part of his mind still absurdly devoted to focusing on the new knowledge of this man’s scent. Sherlock salivates even more as he wonders how this man will smell, and _feel_ in person...Sherlock quickly shakes his head and growls in frustration. He cannot afford distractions now. He hasn’t had a case, or any form of interesting work for that matter, since before his imprisonment several months ago and that is a heavy weight on his mind. However, the combination of his current objective, the sheer enormity of new knowledge he’s absorbing every second by being in the supposedly "mythical" tenth kingdom and the captivating scent of a normal human man are a soak of refreshing stimulus to his mind. It is almost enough to divert his attention from his very strong, Half-Wolf instinct driven stomach telling him despite the bits of food he was able to grab earlier – and he’d swallowed them with deep groans of pleasure - he hasn’t had a proper meal for months. They only ever fed him baked bean stalk or bean stalk juice – utterly revolting – in prison when they remembered to do so (the treatment of Half-Wolfs in prison is particularly extreme as experience has taught him). It was only when he was on the verge of literally starving to death that he even resorted to eating any of it.

   Sherlock diverts that train of thought and focuses his mind more intently on his current predicament.  _It’s time to find the Prince –_ Sherlock inwardly sneers with delight _– and then hopefully meet this John Watson in person._ Sherlock is surprised to realize that a part of him sincerely hopes he won’t have to harm this man to get to the Prince, while another part is seriously contemplating what John Watson would _taste_ like...his smell does make Sherlock salivate for more than one reason; which is a strong reason for Sherlock's confusion and frustration.

  Sherlock reaches into his coat pocket and starts fiddling with the small box – _Plan B, should it be necessary_ – there as he walks across the foyer of the apartment building.

 

_Up in Harriet Watson’s apartment...._

 

   “Fuck...Wha....What happened...” Harry grumbles as she regains consciousness. Her head pounds with throbbing pain.

   The last thing she remembers is leaving to buy a bottle of her top choice Vodka (from the liquor mart down the street) after a break up with Mary that involved much angry yelling, swearing and crying...Mary accused her of still being in love with Clara after Harry called out Clara's name during sex. Fucking ridiculous of course,  _Harry_  left  _Clara_...if she were still in love with her, why would she do that? A part of Harry knows that is a pathetic argument. This eventually lead to more thoughts about Clara, which led to Harry dwelling on their last conversation (right before she asked John to stay with her for a while), which for Harry, inevitably lead to her coping mechanism; Vodka.

   Her memory is fuzzy after she started gulping the sharp, painfully welcome liquid; feeling both shame, anger and relief at the numb feeling from the Alcohol in her system. At the time, she remembers thinking that when John came home he would know, he would know and be disappointed in her. Harry could also remember not giving a care to what John thought...at least, that’s what she told herself.

   All that couldn’t have been long ago, she can still feel the effect of the Vodka in her body and mind. As she squirms she realizes at one point she must’ve collapsed and fallen asleep in her chair.

   Harry grunts and lifts up her head...she reaches out a hand to her chest and touches what appears to be...pink dust? Coating her entire front, it is light and falls gracefully from her finger tips. “What the fuck? Am I hallucinating?” Harry mutters and pushes herself further out of the recliner.

   As Harry stands, her eyes widen in shock as she takes a look around the apartment. “What the...” Harry says; breathless.  _Did...I do this? I definitely don’t remember this..._

   Before Harry can register anything else; her ears and head ring painfully as someone begins knocking loudly outside the apartment door.

   “Ugh, go away...” Harry murmurs uselessly. She reaches up to touch her head.

   Harry jumps completely out of the recliner in surprise as a man leaps into the apartment.

   “Hm.” The man hums calmly; gazing around the apartment with a raised brow. “Trolls.” The man sniffs very visibly and his nose scrunches up in what seems to be disgust; he also looks disappointed. He then seems to shake himself of that and turns his gaze towards Harry. With a wide and charming smile on his face he takes a slow step forward.

   Harry immediately recoils and backs away.

  “Who the hell are you? Get the fuck out!” Harry screeches, and immediately regrets it; her head throbs further pain. _Ugh._ She stumbles and quickly grasps the back of the recliner with her right hand.

  The man quickly immediately stops moving and holds up his hands in the typical signal of surrender. He appears to be studying her, his eyes moving all over her body and face with an analyzing, piercing gaze that sets Harry on edge.

   “I do apologize for barging in like that, if you’ll allow me to explain my presence in your home I promise you won’t regret it.”

   Harry stares at him in disbelief and blinks her eyes. Her gut instincts are telling her to kick this man in balls since he doesn’t appear to be leaving,  _who the fuck is he?_  However the alcohol still in her system is making it difficult for her to do much other than stay where she is. She can barely understand what this man is saying _...did he say “Trolls” earlier?_

   Upon noticing Harry’s lack of response, the tall man continues to speak. “I have come to make you an offer. One that - should you accept - would bring to you whatever it is you desire or want to fix in your life.” To accentuate his words, the man twirls in a wide circle with arms held up high in the air; his coat billows elegantly around him as he spins. He returns his gaze to Harry and gives her a subtle smile. "I am sure there are many things you would like to alter in your life."

   “I...I don’t know what you’re selling, or whatever it is you want, but I am not-” Harry reaches down and grabs a fallen piece of picture frame from the floor, she tries to hold it out as if to defend herself but her stance and grip are poor at best in this condition. “-interested.” She finishes.

   The man waves off her words and takes a single, cautious step towards Harry.

   “I am not selling anything.” The man says calmly. “In exchange for the whereabouts of your brother, I will give you-” The tall man reaches into his pocket and takes out a small box. He then opens it and shows the contents to Harry. “-this magic bean. Which once eaten will allow you to make six wishes.”

 _Magic bean? Six wishes? Is this guy high? ...he wants to know where John is, why?_  Harry blinks slowly and stares into the box...she drops the piece of picture frame in surprise as she notices a half thumb sized bean jumping –  _jumping?! What the fuck!_  – around inside the box.

   As Harry takes a step forward to look more closely into the box, she barely notices a very faint stream of pale green vapor rise from one end of the bean and enter her nose. She instantly feels magnetically drawn towards the bean, without thinking she close the gap between her – stumbling a little as she moves - and the man. She reaches out for the bean... _whatever I want? Able to fix anything? Is that even possible?_

   However before she can touch it the man closes the box lid and holds it behind his back. Harry feels the urge the growl, in the back of her head she’s wondering what the hell has gotten into her? The rest of her brain though is steadfastly ignoring that part.

   The man opens his mouth as if to speak, but something behind Harry seems to catch his eye. He re-pockets the box and strides firmly past her. She watches with a confused expression as she sees the man stop in front of the electric fireplace and quickly grab something from the mantle...a picture. One of the few, now that Harry thinks about it, that doesn’t appear to be broken or smashed compared to the rest of the apartment.

   “This is him.” The man utters matter-of-factly, his voice suddenly much lower than before. “It never occurred to me that – how can  _this_ be  _him?!_ ” The man growls and whirls around almost angrily, thrusting the picture towards Harry.

   “ _What_  are you talking about?” Harry looks at him as though he’s crazy.

   Her gaze moves automatically to the man’s coat pocket, her eyes are glued to where the magic bean must surely still be jumping around, constrained in that small box....

   “He’s...luminous.” Harry is startled from her trance. And then the man’s words sink in...Harry loves her brother (even when she doesn't appear to), but would never,  _ever_  describe him as ... “luminous”, and she most definitely wouldn’t say it as though she was... _starving. It's creepy, and_  s _eriously, who the fuck is this guy?_   The man moves his gaze from her to stare with wide eyes at the picture, both his hands are clutching it tightly; knuckles white. “Deceptively ordinary, striking, how...confounding.” The man growls. Harry can’t see it, but at that moment the man’s eyes turn animalistic and flash completely golden several times. Almost at the same time a loud, resounding howl rips from the man’s mouth.

 _“What the hell?”_  Harry whispers and cringes at the extremely wolf-like sound; her mouth is open in surprise and her eyes are wide with disbelief.

   At the sound of her voice the man lifts his focus from the picture and gazes at Harry; his hands are still holding onto the small frame tightly, his whole posture all the way up to his neck is tense. His gaze quickly darts back to the picture and Harry could swear she sees the man lick his lips. “Delicious.” The man growls the words with an unbelievably deep pitch.

   The tall man howls again, and Harry gapes at him feeling more than a little shocked and bewildered. 

 

_In the elevator...._

 

   Burly, Blabberwort and Blue Bell are not at all happy with their current predicament. All of three of them are jumping up and down hard. Banging angrily with closed fists on the walls of the small space they’ve been trapped in by that man; whom they all agree must be magical if he’s able to do this to them. It doesn’t help that the lights inside keep flickering on and off, this annoys the Trolls greatly.

   Burly throws himself against the wall opposite those magic doors with as strong a force as he is capable of....The room creaks and groans from his useless effort.

   Blue Bell runs his fingers along the seam of the doors and tries to open them. He growls loudly when he fails to do so.

   Blabberwort runs her fingers along an area of what looks like buttons. She presses each one but nothing happens.

   The three of them are very much out of breath by this point. Blabberwort collapses against one side of the room and breathes heavily.

   “I’ve been thinking back over the years, and I feel this is quite the  _worst_  spell we have  _ever been put under!_ ” Blabberwort shouts with irritation and bangs her fist once and loudly against the wall.

   Her two brothers nod in agreement.

   “We’ve had some stinkers but nothing like this.” Burly says, looking around the small room and feeling more than a little infuriated with the situation. They do have a mission to complete after all! And they were so close to, and then that...magical man tricked them into this...place. “He’s a powerful wizard that one.” Burly crosses the small room and stands against the opposite wall; hands on hips.

   Blue Bell, who’d just been circling the small room, suddenly stops with a look of epiphany on his face.

   “I think...we might be in his pocket!” Blue Bell says; looking confidently at his brother and sister.

   Blabberwort looks to be considering what her younger brother is saying, so she moves a bit closer to him. Burly on the other hand frowns and narrows his eyes. “What?”

   Blue Bell lifts up his hands and proceeds to tell his siblings what he believes to be an intelligent theory. “I think he shrunk us, and put us in a match box-” At this Blue Bell looks up towards the ceiling, Blabberwort and Blue Bell follow his gaze; both with mouths slightly open. “-in his pocket.” Blue Bell finishes in a slightly darker tone.

   Burly looks around the small room slowly.

   “That’s _ridiculous!_ ” Burly spits. He throws up his hands in annoyance and stares at his brother in disbelief. “You’re falling to pieces! Get a grip of yourself! How can we be in a  _match box_  you  _idiot?!_ ” Burly pauses. Blue Bell is looking at him with a scrunched up face and a look of clear irritation at being called an idiot. Burly stretches out his arms and gestures to the surrounding space. “Where are all the  _matches?!_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to thank all those who have commented and kudosed the story so far! Really, your support in my first fan fiction endeavor is greatly appreciated :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, here is the next chapter! Enjoy! :D

**Chapter 6**

 

_Back in Harriet Watson’s apartment..._

 

   Harry has been staring at this man (a part of her mind is shouting at her relentlessly _“why is he still here?!”_  ) with a blank expression for the past two minutes. This odd occurrence with this...more than a little bit strange man has sobered her up significantly, but she can still feel a zinging pain in her head and a heavy wooziness in her body.

   During those two minutes, the tall man has continued to stare at the photograph of her brother (a fairly recent one) and quite frankly...even in her current state, it is really creeping her out to the point where she’s _almost_ forgotten about the magic bean.

   She opens her mouth to say something biting but just then the man’s demeanour changes instantly. He straightens out of his slight bent position, and goes from enraptured to coldly focused, coldly focused to the wide charming smile he’d been sporting earlier, and from staring at the picture to gazing at Harry as he places the photograph gently on the coffee table in front of the sofa.

   Harry inwardly shivers. No one would ever say she has a fear of danger - in any form - it comes from having Watson blood. However, in this instance, the way this man has switched his manner and expression in the fraction of a second is...unsettling and borderline disturbing, and it sets her on edge. She’s not afraid though, whether that’s her DNA or the last remnants of alcohol talking...that’s up for debate.

   The tall man, now looking fully composed, walks towards her and once again lifts the box with the magic bean out of his pocket. As he opens the box Harry’s eyes fall to the jumping magic bean instantly...the man’s words resonate in her addled head _‘One that - should you accept - would bring to you whatever it is you desire...magic bean..._ _Which once eaten will allow you to make six wishes.’_

   Again, Harry feels instantly drawn to it in a way so strong it feels like a compulsion. The tall man says nothing, merely raises an eyebrow and reaches out for her hand. Harry, her slightly unfocused gaze still intent on the bean, lets him pick up her hand and expose her palm so it is flat. He then tips the box over her hand and the bean lands in the middle of her palm. She gasps in surprise as it continues to jump.... _how...fuck...beans shouldn’t jump, and they certainly don’t...leak green...leak anything! All this is very...I must be hallucinating..._

   “Why does it do that?” Harry mutters quietly to herself.

   “Six wishes.” The man says simply. “Imagine...anything, everything you desire. All that could be yours - _can_ be, yours.” The tall man speaks with a deep, hypnotic tone of voice.

   Harry’s eyes glaze over as she stares at the bean in her hand; her breathing has increased ever so slightly. Because of her focus, she doesn’t notice the look of unabashed triumph on the tall man’s face.

   Harry closes her eyes and shakes her head _. No...no this isn’t right; this guy must be fucking insane!_

   For a brief moment Harry regains some manner of control over herself and backs away from the man.

   “Just...get the hell out of my apartment!” Harry yells. The tall man looks confused for a split second and then noticeably growls. Harry looks down again at the bean in her hand. “This...this is a joke right?” Harry laughs sardonically.

   She watches as the man begins pacing in front of her.

   “No, this is a standard multiple wishes...” The man appears to ponder for a moment before adding – “contract.” He finishes. “Six wishes. No going back on wishes once professed, and no making five wishes and then wishing for another thousand.” The man stops pacing and again faces Harry. He’s grinning broadly. “Now, I’m sure you will agree that what I wish for in exchange is modest compared to what you could achieve with that magical trinket.”  His voice is deep, and his whole bearing is one of chilling confidence as he speaks.

_What he wants? Right...John._ Harry stiffens at the thought. _I...I can’t._ She looks at the bean, her mouth almost waters and her muddled mind is supplying her with various images of everything she wants. “So, where is your _dear_ brother?” The man asks, sounding surprisingly patient; though there is a tense edge in his voice.

   Harry breathes deeply; her eyes once again glaze over as she stares at the magic bean. Her hand visibly shakes as a single tear runs down her cheek.

   “What do you want him for?” Harry asks.

   “Simply to retrieve my dog that he found earlier, I was given this address by a most helpful young woman at The Grill.” He says .  

_Oh._ “A dog?” 

   He nods. “There’s even a reward involved which I intend to give him personally.”

   Harry’s eyebrows scrunch together as she thinks on what he said... _he could be telling the truth, if so then...then what harm could there be?_ A part of Harry is very much skeptical and already feeling shame at what she knows she's about to do. However that is quickly squashed by the other parts of her occupied with focusing on the bean.

   “I’m not sure exactly where he is. He could be at The Grill, in the Park or at his grandmothers.” Harry refuses to refer to that woman as “our grandmother”; she isn’t biologically related to her anyway.

   The man seems to jump in what could be excitement. Harry lifts her gaze to look at him.

   “And does this grandmother like...flowers?” The tall man queries; he’s obviously feeling cheerful if the upbeat dance in his voice is any indication.

   Harry scoffs; completely ignoring the fact that the man for some reason has zeroed in on the grandmother's place option.

   “Money is the only thing she fucking _likes._ ” Harry says with a note of sarcasm on the word ‘like’. To John’s grandmother, there are two true loves in her life ‘money’ and ‘alcohol’. The irony isn’t lost on Harry, and she hates it.

   The man appears to consider this and hums quietly. “Address.” He says sternly. “Please.” He quickly adds in a softer tone.

   “Um...right.” Harry closes her hand tightly around the bean and tries to remember that _woman’s_ address. Though the pain of her head is falling, she still feels fringes of the Vodka in her system – that familiar urge for more, never forgotten and still felt often through her few months of sobriety, is already gnawing away inside her  – so it might take her a minute to remember, but she knows she will. Harry curses her near indelible memory, something she probably inherited from their father. Honestly it’s one of the reasons she eventually became an alcoholic. When one is unable to forget something they dearly wished they could, how far would they go to make themselves forget?

   With her attention torn between the bean tightly fisted in her right hand and trying to remember John’s grandmother’s address, the tall man in front of her has calmly resumed a slow pace.

   Harry doesn’t notice when the man pauses in his pacing and slyly reaches for the picture of her brother. With a carefully blank expression he deftly pockets the framed photograph.

   It is at this point that Harry remembers the address. As she relays it to him she feels her stomach grow nauseous. She uncurls her hand and stares – hypnotised – at the bean and tells herself the nausea is from the alcohol and not a result of guilt.

   She lifts her gaze and notices that the man in front of her appears to be as torn as she feels; he’s almost jumpy with what could be excitement, yet his face is set in a deep frown and his eyes are cold and distant. For what reason...Harry doesn't know, nor does she care.

   She feels a wave of nausea and her face contorts into a grimace. She groans loudly. This seems to shake the man out of whatever distraction he was just held in.

   “It’s been a pleasure.” The tall man says and gives Harry a stiff nod.

   He then brushes past her and heads back towards the door. The magic bean makes a slight jump in her hand, her heart begins to beat ever faster and Harry whips around.

   “Wait!” She calls out loudly before the man can leave. The man had just reached the door; he stops at the sound of her voice and turns around to face her. “So I just...what, eat this? How long does it take to work?” Harry asks, already trying to think of what her first wish will be...

    “Oh don’t worry.” The tall man says and his mouth quirks into an odd and somewhat unsettling smile. “The first three hours...are the worst.” He gives a dramatic bow and his face becomes a deadpan mask as he rushes out the door.

   Harry’s brow furrows in confusion. _What the fuck just happened?_ She shakes her head and looks down at the bean in her hand... _I must be insane, though I already knew that_. She draws a deep breath and plops the moving bean into her mouth and swallows. Her face morphs into an expression of discomfort as the slightly too big bean forces itself down her throat.

   She pauses for a few seconds. _Well...I don’t... **feel** any different._ Harry snorts and thinks on what her first wish should be...hmmm... “Alright, for my first wish-” She suddenly stops speaking as a searing pain throbs in her stomach. It stops. She frowns in confusion and attempts to continue. “For my first wi-” She doesn’t get any farther than that before another searing pain resonates in her belly. “Ah fuck!” She groans and suddenly feels the urge to throw up. She sprints – though stumbling somewhat – towards the bathroom.

   This time she’s fairly certain that particular nausea has nothing to do with alcohol or guilt.

 

_At the grandmother’s apartment..._

 

   John’s grandmother lives in a relatively well-to-do area of New York. Though her apartment may not be large, it is classy and fancy and makes John extremely out of place and uncomfortable; more so because every time he goes there, not only is he reminded of his mother but also because John is the type of man who enjoys a more modest way of life, he much prefers coziness to high-end furniture that is both pointless and always seems to be uncomfortable. Every time he sits in one of her chairs he thinks; _“It’s like bloody concrete!”_

   John’s ideal is a place that feels like a warm and inviting home, his grandmother’s place is the exact opposite; hence his discomfort. It doesn’t escape John’s notice that he can’t remember the last time he ever felt truly at home anywhere.

   Standing in front of the door leading into his grandmother’s home John finds himself hesitating. He stares at the gilded door knocker; he can already smell the sick scent of cigarettes wafting from behind the door. Not only is his grandmother an alcoholic, she is a heavy smoker too. John hesitates only briefly though, he remembers his reasons for going here.

_Right, feeling compelled to protect an innocent dog from three people who claim to be "Trolls" and whatever other danger the dog (Prince) is convinced still exists._ If the way Prince is still tense and looking around as though expecting monsters to leap out and attack is any indication, there is still something out there Prince is afraid of.

   John doubts the “Trolls” will be able to get out of the stuck elevator any time soon, and he can’t think of any way anyone involved in this fiasco could know his grandmother’s address; at least for now. However, John is quickly coming to terms with that anything really is possible. His grandmother’s home is as good a place as any to crash, just for the night.

   Getting here wasn’t so difficult. Harry has a car (parked in the small garage adjacent to the building), though she rarely uses it and John never has. She always keeps a spare key tucked under the rim near the back in case of emergencies....John is surprised it hasn't been stolen yet. Either way, to John this counted as an emergency. And though John hasn’t driven a car in America for many years, it wasn’t too difficult sitting on the opposite side of the car and using his hands for the opposite tasks, driving on the opposite side of road etc. The difficult part was getting Prince _into_ the car, which was almost as difficult as getting Prince into the cab earlier. Apparently the safe trip in that vehicle hadn’t dampened the dogs apparent... _caution_ around cars. John had tried saying “It’s perfectly safe”, to which Prince replied by barking once and looking at John as though he were crazy. At the time John seriously considered that this might be true.

   Prince did jump into the car eventually and so John drove them to his grandmother’s home. He did think of Harry during the drive, wondering if he did the right thing by leaving her there. He tells himself his decision had nothing to do with the bottle of Vodka he noticed by her fingers or the faint stench of alcohol on her sleeping breath and the subsequent anger and disappoint he felt; because despite that, John would never willingly leave his sister in a situation where she would be in danger. John’s instincts told him she would be fine. He just hopes he’s right.

   The fun part of the drive was when John started explaining where they were going and he started to feel like a bit of an idiot for talking to a _dog._ 38 years of seeing and believing hard evidence that dogs _cannot_ spell or understand _everything_ a person says with _perfect_ comprehension is hard to get past. John ended up laughing at himself. At this point John is so bloody grateful for the wrench in what has become his routine that he’s willing to see - whatever is really going on – all the way through. Even if that involves wrapping his head around the possible existence of Trolls and dogs that can spell, understand English and who knows what else...He breathes deeply and laughs his exhale.

   John quickly glances at the dog waiting patiently by his side. He grips his cane tightly and lifts the intricately carved door knocker; letting it fall loudly against the door three times.

   It doesn’t take long before he hears footsteps coming towards the door and the sound of a door chain being pulled away.

   As soon as the door opens John can tell his grandmother is intoxicated, though not so much that she’s completely immobilised.

   “My dear John!” She squeals, her voice scratchy and unsteady, as she throws herself on him and wraps her arms around him tightly.

    “Hi Gram.” The smell of alcohol and cigarettes is nauseating, but John refrains from saying so and lightly hugs his grandmother back. “I’m sorry for dropping by this late, but do you mind if I stay over? Just for tonight?”

   She squeezes him once. “Oh my boy you must come inside!” She pulls back and motions for John to enter; a single cigarette hangs loosely from the elderly woman’s left hand. John enters and Prince slinks in, keeping close to John. His grandmother closes the door behind them and looks into John’s face. “You have your mother’s eyes you know. Not the colour, but the shape.” She says simply and lightly pats his cheek with a smile.

   John gives her a pained smile. “You have told me before.”

   “She’ll come back you know, just swarm in! Without a word, oh that would be so like her too. I do look forward to seeing her again! We had such fun! Remember when the three of us played dress up? We should do that again when she comes back! She was quite the actress.” Her eyes twinkle, though whether that’s from alcohol or remembering John doesn’t quite know. She sways slightly and nearly collapses into John.

   “Here, let me help.” John reaches out and wraps his good arm around her waist. “Let’s go sit down and I’ll get you some water to drink.” _Instead of scotch_ , John adds in his head. He completely ignores what his grandmother just said.

   “You don’t think she could be in the Caribbean do you? She always loved the sun!” The grandmother continues on, completely oblivious to John’s comment; though she lets John guide her towards her bedroom.

   “I think she would’ve come back by now, 31 years is a remarkably long time to sunbathe.” John notes with a bitter edge of sarcasm.

   “Don’t be cheek dear.” Grandmother says firmly.

   They’ve reached her door near the end of the long hallway, though the journey was a little slow due to John’s leg and his grandmother’s intoxication.

   John’s grandmother’s apartment is both posh (family money) and very easy to navigate. When you open the front door, all you see is a singular long hallway; the left wall is entirely made of windows and the right is lined with various doors that lead –from closest to the front door to farthest away-to the living room, dining room, kitchen, guest bedroom number one, John’s grandmother’s room, a rather large bathroom and the very last room down at the end of the hall; guest bedroom number two. The hallway is lined with pale, cream coloured berber carpet and the walls are white with intricately carved, gold-coloured bordering. There is a shallow step that leads from the small foyer to the rest of the hall and subsequently the rest of the apartment, other than that there are no other stairs in the place.

   John reaches out and opens the door leading into his grandmother’s bedroom. Almost immediately, her dog Roland (a rather pompous poodle with a little bright pink bow atop his head, tied around a tuft of white fur) begins barking.

   It is at this point the grandmother first notices the dog that has followed John into the apartment.

   She makes a noise of disgust. “What’s _that?_ ” She asks John, very clearly mortified at the sight of an unknown animal in her apartment.

   John refrains from answering right away and leads her over to a peach coloured chair in the corner of her room beside her vanity. Once John has her sat down, he leans back up and after balancing himself once again using his cane, he opens his mouth to answer.

 

_Oh please dog, won’t you please shut up!_ Mycroft thinks this to himself as he enters the room directly behind John.

   Several things have become concretely evident to the Prince over the past little while;

   1) John Watson – true to the nature of a dedicated soldier – is steadfast in protecting those in need of defence (the episode with those repulsive Trolls proved that), and this is repeatedly showing to be of use to Mycroft.

   2) Whoever invented the transportation devices here – using materials the Prince has never seen before – is both a mastermind and positively insane; two things that often coincide.

   3) Against all probability, Mycroft – by way of the mirror - has somehow most definitely winded up in the mythological 10th kingdom; an impossibility, and yet...here he is. The evidence supporting that particular insight is too great to ignore.

   4) The Half-Wolf is still in pursuit, though he is nowhere nearby at the moment (thankfully) and Mycroft is still attempting to figure out _exactly_ why he’s here. Sure the logical reason is obvious; the Queen must've released the wolf from prison and sent him to retrieve Mycroft clearly not confident the Trolls would succeed in retrieving the Prince. And rightly so. However, Mycroft is still pondering over that moment of eye-contact and the inescapable feeling that he has met that specific wolf before. One thing is positive, this Half-Wolf chasing him; really, truly hates him (Mycroft could clearly read it in the wolf's face), more so than anyone the Prince has ever met. Mycroft felt it so strongly when their eyes met in the dank, storage room.

   5) Prince Mycroft has to somehow return through the mirror, get his body back while simultaneously avoiding the Trolls and this Wolf while he’s imprisoned within the body of a dog. And that...that is the maddening part which complicates everything. That is a particular challenge he would rather not have to overcome, but he has no choice and there is very little point in moaning over the matter. Communicating (or lack thereof) is especially inefficient and maddening in this form. _How horribly inconvenient, in more ways than one. This whole situation has me actually feeling...emotionally compromised._ Mycroft shudders inwardly. He prides himself on his normally shrewd and detached manner, reading others but not being easily read himself, never letting emotions guide his actions and decisions on what must be done and the way he thinks....being turned into a dog would unbalance anyone. And that is precisely a reason why Mycroft is feeling more than a little frustrated. He thought he was above the emotional worries of the common populace. His maxim afterall is 'Caring is not an advantage', words that have been proven to him over and over again and simply a matter of fact.

   The bedroom in which he now finds himself is the only room he has seen so far that bears any resemblance to his castle. It’s certainly not as large, but the furnishings and artwork are of relatively decent quality and the bed is certainly one he would never sneer at. The only thing – well, two things – that are truly irritating him to no end are the thick smell of smoke (he’s not sure whether it is the same as the plant people occasionally smoke where he comes from or if his dog nose is simply picking up undertones of mainly revolting scent his human nose would’ve previously been incapable of doing), and the relentless barking of the dog – that presumably belongs to the old woman (Obviously John Watson’s grandmother) - severely grating on his auditory senses.

   Without thinking, he immediately jumps upon the large bed; resting his sore legs on the wonderful soft fabric. Peripherally he is aware of John Watson guiding the old woman to a chair. He hears the old woman ask John a question in which she refers to himself.

   “He is a stray I picked up today.” John says and walks over to sit on the edge of the bed.

   Mycroft stays still as John reaches out and pets him behind his ears; it is a most curious sensation – having his ears scratched – but not particularly unpleasant, just strange. He’s allowed it by the people here so far because – as much as he wants to deny it – the part of him that is very much _dog_ likes it and the other part is tolerating it because he needs allies and he’s willing to put up with someone patting his fur if it gets him allies that could potentially help him with his current goals.

    The grandmother visibly scowls.

   “Keep him away from Roland, he’s probably got _fleas!_ ” She sounds near scandalized. The dog mentioned is still barking at him, much to Prince Mycroft’s annoyance.

   Mycroft notices John roll his eyes. The old woman breathes in a deep drag of smoke. She is wearing a rather hideous pink and white lacy nightgown, which clashes terribly with her so obviously fake blond curly hair and her face heavily caked on with make-up.

   “He doesn’t have fleas.” John automatically says in response. “You don’t have fleas do you?” John adds in a mutter; more to himself but Mycroft automatically shakes his head in response.

_The very thought of...having fleas! Horrendous._ The Prince shudders.

   With a final pat to the Prince’s head, John pushes himself off the bouncy mattress and stands up. This leaves Mycroft alone on the bed with the still irritating yapping dog. Mycroft desperately tries to ignore the sound.

   “Shh, shh.” John says in an attempt to quiet Roland, but to no avail. If the expression on John's face is indicative of anything, it is that he is not that much more fond of the dog than Mycroft is. 

   He sighs and walks over to his grandmother. She’s currently nursing a rather large glass of dark, golden liquid. Some sort of alcohol going by the smell.

   John stops in front of her and stares with a fierce gaze at the glass in her hand, Mycroft watches with faint interest as John reaches out and gently takes the glass from her hand; she lets him. He grips the glass firmly and hobbles in the direction of the door, he soon exits and Mycroft listens as he walks down the hallway; probably to get that glass of water he promised his grandmother. The Prince glances at the aforementioned old woman. She’s now tending to another smoking stick, as she blows out a twirling puff of thick, ghastly chemical smelling smoke Mycroft thinks one word; _vile._

   It’s not long before John returns. He immediately walks over to his grandmother and hands her the tall glass of water, frowning as he eyes the smoking cylindrical in her hand.

   Mycroft doesn’t observe much love between the two, however he can patently see both the concerned doctor and grandson deeply frowning and cringing as his eyes flick between the cigarette and alcohol... _must be terribly unfortunate to have two alcoholic family members._ He’s clearly uncomfortable here, but to the Prince it’s noticeable from the additional tense set of John’s shoulders and clenched jaw that there is another reason for that. What the reason is...that is not so clear.

   The grandmother sips the water and then proceeds to breathe in from one end of the smoking cylindrical.

   “Did you get the letters I sent you?” The grandmother asks.

   “In Afghanistan? Yes.” John says. He sits down in the chair across from her.

   The grandmother appears to shudder.

   “I can’t believe you went off gallivanting to that _infernal_ place! And then _London_ before that, you shouldn’t have left home.” The grandmother breathes deep, though that action fails as she starts coughing. John reaches over and pats her back firmly, yet gently. “Though I suppose you have some of your mother’s wild side to you.”  She laughs, though her eyes portray something akin to disapproval. Mycroft watches the exchange with quiet observation; Roland on the other hand is being an incorrigible nuisance by continuing to bark. John appears to be listening to his grandmother’s words with some manner of detachment. _He’s trying not to listen, but is putting on a forced smile and listening anyway....hm, interesting._ “She could’ve married anyone, she was so beautiful, she occupied the minds of the richest and the most upper-class." Her grip on the glass of water is shaky at best as she takes another sip. “Then she had to go and marry your _father_.” There’s that tone of disapproval again.

   John exhales a sigh of exasperation. _He's had this conversation before._ There is sudden silence (well, almost. That _dog_ is _still_ barking) and John pulls his gaze away from his grandmother. The Prince turns his focus away from John and his grandmother as the former seems to go lost in thought.

   Prince Mycroft is now looking at the dog laying down to his right. Mycroft tries a very dog-like move and pulls his teeth back in an attempt to placate the animal. _Nothing_ , Mycroft notes with frustration. Time to try a very human move then, eventhough he's never done this before. Checking to make sure neither of the two humans in the room are looking ( _they’re not, good_ ), Mycroft lifts up a paw and hits _Roland_ as hard as he can smack-dab on the head. The dog is immediately silenced as he falls unconscious.

   The Prince grins faintly and savours the bark-free silence.

 

 

   “Though I suppose since you haven’t yet married beneath yourself, there’s still hope for you. I could help you know? I’ve got connections.”

   John cringes. He really thinks that the majority of his grandmother’s attitudes belong firmly in the past, those types of comments always bother him. Though he does feel sorry for her, this is just one of the reasons why his visits with his grandmother are usually always...unpleasant. He couldn’t care less about what his grandmother says and tries to imply about him directly, that he can overlook. However it always twists a sore spot whenever she mentions his sister, mother or his father; whether in an obvious or less-obvious way or not. He may not have been close to his father (John still isn’t entirely sure why), but he was a good and decent man. And his mother...well, that’s a door he would rather not open right now. _Never_ , actually.

   John hasn’t thought about his father for a while, he died just over 10years ago. Around the time Harry seriously started drinking. Neither John nor any other doctor could do anything to help when his father became terminal from Prostate Cancer. John had only ever felt so useless once before in his life. He'd joined the army afterwards.

   John is jarred from his thoughts as he hears his grandmother speak again.

   “What?” He says, turning back to face her.

   Her eyes narrow in displeasure.

   “Oh Johnny, do pay attention!” She crows, and takes another sip of her water; the cigarette loosely held in her left hand is still smoking slowly. John restrains what could’ve been a very visible flinch at the use of that particular nickname. The only other person to ever call him Johnny was his mother. “I said I could use my connections to help you marry a nice, young and well-to-do lady.” She giggles and puts down her water. She picks up her glass still filled with a bit of scotch and takes a big gulp.

   John has no doubt that her connections have long since faded away, but that’s beside the point. He’s not even going to bother telling her he does not and will never want her help finding someone to marry. He will do that himself, should he find a woman he loves (financial status doesn’t matter to him) and wants to spend the rest of his life with. Still, that possibility seems far off and he isn’t occupied with it at present. Though he wouldn't mind if he were able to get laid at least a bit more than he currently is, which is none at all as his libido is oh so kind to remind him of.

   “Don’t throw your life away the way your mother did John.” His grandmother says, and flicks some ash onto the tray beside her chair. “I can see the whole thing happening all over again.”

   John forces down a rush of anger – though he’s sure some of it must have flashed in his eyes – and instead smiles weakly; his gaze once again turning away from his grandmother. The exhaustion from the day is finally starting to creep into his awareness and John really isn’t in the mood for an argument that will inevitably yield no results.

   The one thing John has promised himself is that if he’s ever in the position his mother was in, he would never just abandon his family. Especially not in the way she did, which was suddenly and with no word.

   John groans and shuts his eyes tightly. _I really need to sleep...and I’ll be bloody angry if I end up having a nightmare._

 

_In Harriet Watson’s apartment...._

 

 

   Harry didn’t end up vomiting, though she almost wishes she had. Instead she kneeled – for what felt like hours – in front of the toilet retching dry heaves over and over again, the pain continuing to twist in her gut.

   Now as she bends out of her awkward crouch in the bathroom, she shakily stands and lightly rests her hand on her stomach.

   “Stupid, stupid!” Harry groans. _Why did I have to go and lose my mind, eat that fucking magic bean_ – Harry scoffs – _and give up my brother’s possible location to a mad man that said John had found his lost dog...? Fuck if I had been completely sober when he arrived...probably would’ve kneed him in the balls right away._ Suddenly Harry remembers why she went and bought those two bottles of Vodka in the first place (the second one is in the fridge) ...a new wave of nausea rolls through her. _Mary...Clara._

   “Clara.” Harry whispers. In her minds eye Harry see's a woman with long, flaming red hair; hazel eyes crinkled with the faintest crows feet around them. A wide smile, freckles and a beautiful, round face. A single tear falls down Harry's face. “Fuck.” Harry growls in frustration and bangs her fists in anger against the wall; she winces as the vibration and sound sends a fresh wave of pain to her head.

   Harry wonders if she’ll end up dying as a result of whatever it is she so stupidly swallowed in her borderline hypnotized state. _Wouldn’t be a huge loss to anyone._ Harry gives a pained laugh as she walks, slowly and unevenly, out of the bathroom.

   She walks down the hallway, past her bedroom, John’s room, the kitchen and stops when she reaches the living room. Once again she is struck by the sheer chaos of ripped apart furniture, broken photographs, turned over tables and a broken beyond repair television. And once again, she can’t remember much about before she woke up in the recliner with pink dust on her; just another confusing detail to the fucking mess that is her living room – that is her life if she were to branch out dramatically.

   Harry laughs almost maniacally and slumps against the nearest wall. Harry feels she should be angry at the fact that she’s been an alcoholic for years, but no matter how hard she tries to be just mad _enough_ to use every ounce of her strong will to quit – which she did try to do – she just can’t. She can’t hate the one thing that keeps her numb and detached from...everything she would rather not remember or feel. _How can I have let down so many people and still I’m alive? I even betrayed my own **brother** tonight. And all for the lure of what that fucking mad man said the bean could do. Six wishes? Come on Harry, where did your common sense go? Oh right, it morphed into alcohol! Almost forgot!_ The sarcasm in her head is so heavy and obvious Harry laughs aloud.

   “I really am just that perfect.” Harry laughs again and pushes herself away from the wall. Without even thinking about it she finds herself walking towards the bottle of Vodka she left by her recliner. _Might as well finish it, it is all I have left after all._

   As she reaches her recliner, she bends down and picks up the bottle. Barely a quarter is left, but she twists off the lid and gulps down the rest anyway. She doesn’t wince or cough, long used to the taste and burn, instead she simply chucks the bottle aside and it lands with a muted thud on the living room rug.

   Harry loosely places her hands on her hips and glances again around the room. She then raises her head to gaze at the ceiling. Harry breathes deeply and closes her eyes. “I wish I knew some people whose lives I haven’t made miserable, maybe then I’d have a chance to make some real friends.”

   As soon as the words leave her mouth she feels an odd warm feeling in her throat and exiting her mouth. Her eyes flash open and she sees a whirl of green smoke leaving her slightly parted lips....the same green the bean emitted.

  “What the-”

_Knock! Knock! Knock! Knock! Knock!_

   Multiple knocks echo from the direction of the apartment door before Harry can finish her sentence. _Christ! What know?!_

   Harry rolls her eyes and slowly makes her way in the direction of the door. The knocks continue to resonate until she peers through what is left of the door.

   Her eyes widen in shock and her jaw drops.

   “Oh dear Harry! How wonderful to see you!”

   A young woman (long blond hair, wearing a yellow and red striped shirt and corduroy pants) whom Harry is fairly certain she has _never_ even seen before is the _first_ face she sees; the second...third...fourth...fifth...and sixth faces are all women of various ages, physical appearances and in startlingly different varieties of clothing. One – Harry realizes with a barely suppressed laugh – is even wearing a costume she is really certain is from Monty Python and the Holy Grail... _who the fuck are these people? And why do they look all so...damn happy to see me? How do they even know me and where I live? This is really, seriously creepy. Have I magically grown a type of specialized magnet for the attraction of...I don’t know. With my luck they’ll probably start howling too._

   Harry stares dumbstruck at the people crowding her apartment door.  

   “You were expecting us weren’t you?” A woman, closer to Harry’s age, pipes up from the left; she has wavy red hair with a few elegant stripes of grey and bright green eyes. Harry finds her to be quite attractive, especially her sultry smile.

   Harry frowns deeply. _What the hell is going on?_

   “I don’t-” Harry begins to say but then shuts her mouth abruptly, her earlier words replaying in her head; _“I wish I knew some people whose lives I haven’t made miserable, maybe then I’d have a chance to make some real friends.”_

_Oh...Oh! But...no, just...no._ Then she remembers the odd green smoke that came out of her lungs as she spoke those words initially. _How is this even....? But who... **are** they? _ Harry’s thoughts are broken up and unfinished sentences, the result of shock. She blinks and feels her heart beating slightly faster as she gazes at the people clearly waiting to enter.

   Harry quickly reviews her situation and options.

   “Oh what the hell.” Harry mutters. “Come on in!” She says a little louder. Feeling both resigned and curious, she gestures for the mysterious group of women to make their way inside.

 

_Several hours later, in the elevator....._

 

   “How long do you think this spell will last?” Burly grunts.

   The three Trolls have been trapped inside this large...cell of some kind for several hours, it must be daytime by now. Consensus on what precisely they’re trapped in, especially after Blue Bell’s idiotic match box suggestion, was never reached and the three of them ended up quarrelling and then collapsing in frustrated heaps on the floor. The most they can agree on is that the man has them under a spell of some kind. A very annoying, and infuriating spell that is severely testing the limits of their Troll tempers.

   “It cannot last long.” Blabberwort speaks confidently, though she is secretly dreading that she could be wrong. Her face is pulled into an expression of concentration as her focus is primarily on keeping her leather boots in pristine shape; she is currently polishing them with a special cloth that all Trolls carry no matter the situation. No Troll would be caught without tools essential for shoe upkeep.

   “A hundred years?” Burly waves a hand around casually and leans forward towards his sister.

   Blue Bell is currently huddled in one of the corners of the small enclosed space, hugging himself tightly and silently watching his sibling’s converse.

   “At most.” Blabberwort responds. She pauses in her boot polishing and looks up at Burly as a thought occurs to her. “Maybe only fifty!”

   Blue Bell’s nose twitches in distaste...fifty years? They’ve had worse, but still...Their father is _really_ going to be upset with them this time. Blue Bell shifts uncomfortably.

   Burly hums a non-commital sound and leans back against the wall.

   “Well, we’ll just have to make the most of our imprisonment. And agree-” Burly points at his brother and sister. “-not to eat each other.” He says, very firm on this point.

   Blue Bell smiles and nods eagerly.

   “Absolutely, absolutely.” Blabberwort pockets her special cloth and leans forward. Her gaze flickers between both of her brothers as she speaks. “We’ll do the hundred years and maybe, if we’re lucky, we’ll only have to do two thirds of the spell and get out early!” She nods at them with clear hope on her face.

    Both her brothers smile and clap their hands with eagerness at the prospect. Really, the less time spent under the influence of this spell the better.

               

 

_In John’s grandmother’s apartment...._

 

   The feeling of something hard nudging lightly against John’s side jars him awake. He automatically bolts upright – instinct telling him to reach for his gun – and a dull thud, along with a very canine sounding yelp, echoes throughout the room.

   As John looks around he sees nothing but a room – no present danger – that is most definitely not his at Harry’s. At that moment John remembers that he is not at home, that he is in his grandmother’s apartment and he most definitely – much to his chagrin – does not have a gun. He also remembers all the events of yesterday in a dizzying spell of recollection and immediately looks to where he heard the yelp come from.

   He spots Prince lying in a disgruntled heap on the floor; he’s looking at John with a very _not_ amused expression which in any other situation probably would be considered very funny. _Oh._ What John must’ve felt earlier was Prince moving against him. John is habitually used to sleeping alone; no one has shared his bed for a long time, much longer than John would like to remember. Plus he’s never had a dog or any kind of pet of his own. He’s just not used to anything being in or on his bed other than him. Regardless, he does feel bad about sending the poor dog tumbling because of his reactive instincts and light sleeping born out of the need to constantly be ready and alert when in Afghanistan.

   “I’m sorry boy. Are you hurt?” John asks and makes to reach out towards the dog. Prince immediately moves away from John’s hand and stands up. John notes he seems to be unhurt, he merely looks...disgruntled, John’s mouth quirks in a small smile. “I really am sorry about that, won’t happen again.” John says and lies back down in the large guestroom bed. “Probably.” He adds quietly.

   Prince appears to have heard this and looks at John for a few, long seconds. He appears to nod slightly and begins walking around the bed, to the side and corner farthest away from John; the latter watches as the former jumps up and lies down on his side, facing away from John.

   John smiles faintly and shakes his head as he pulls the soft, downy duvet tightly around his still tired body. This is what happens when you become accustomed to a relatively lacklustre routine, even if you were highly accustomed to a much more vigorous life before, being suddenly cast back into much activity after months of inactivity can really tire out your system. John is just glad he didn’t end up having a nightmare.

   John observes the clock and faint daylight shining through the seam of th curtains pulled across the single floor the ceiling length window in the room. _Just a few more minutes, something tells me I better take advantage of this sleep while I can._ John closes his eyes and smiles as he fantasizes about having a nice, hot cup of tea when he wakes up...and then he’ll figure out what the bloody hell to do next.

   The last thought that flutters through his head before he – miraculously – falls into unconsciousness once more is that despite everything that has happened within the last day – within the last few _months_ since returning to New York, even though he has been living with his sister and even though his empty life is currently being jarred out of its monotony, John still feels a sense of loneliness. The lack of purpose in his life is a depressing plague and John accepts that the events of the last several hours are more likely to be a temporary balm. He has never openly admitted to feeling crushingly lonely (it’s as though he is disconnected from everything), whether out of pride or anger (or both), it doesn’t matter.

   So John will take advantage of the sense of purpose – however faint – he has now and he will do his damn best (as a human being, as a soldier and as a doctor) with whatever it is he has to do, whether it turns out to be protecting the dog or something else entirely.

   John has an inkling that it’ll turn out to be both.

 

_Not long later..._

After walking all the way to this grandmother’s address, Sherlock has entered the building, walked up a flight of stairs and is striding down the long corridor leading to his goal; the door with the number 201 emblazoned upon it.

   He will have to find some way to properly organize his Mind Palace soon, the chaos and overflow of information is constantly driving into his mind at a speed he is almost unable to deal with. It will take him at least a day to put everything in pristine order and to delete the truly unnecessary information he has accumulated; the number of which is astronomically high and the feeling of his mind being clogged is strong and horribly frustrating to Sherlock.

   However, despite all that, the one item that continues to pulsate and require continual examination is this; John Watson and what little he knows about him. Sherlock is both curious and terrified to find out what it will do to him to meet this man in person, though he would never admit to being afraid. His reaction to seeing the man’s picture (he knew immediately upon seeing it who it was, both by use of deductive reasoning and an annoyingly illogical “gut feeling” that he tried to suppress to no avail) is still a puzzle to him. There have seldom been occasions when Sherlock has been presented with a difficult, exciting puzzle and hasn’t been incredibly fervent to solve it, anything to stimulate his easily bored mind. This particular puzzle of John Watson is one Sherlock is fairly certain (and the fact that he isn’t one hundred percent certain is exceedingly annoying) he would rather forgo having to ponder. And why a portion of his mind and the entirety of his body seem intent on continuing to analyze and - if he were to indulge in romanticism - _bath_ in the knowledge he has accumulated about this man is a mystery Sherlock is unable to grasp presently....This man, this already intriguing in more ways than one human being, this _John_ with the scintillating, delicious smell that makes Sherlock’s body pulse with pleasure and his mouth water.... _what are you to have done this to me? I even called you **luminous** for goodness sakes just from seeing what you look like! I never, ever do that. Detestable. What is happening? I don’t understand! This is utterly maddening!_

   Sherlock growls in anger. _My mind is running in pointless circles and I can’t stop it!_ Sherlock is unsure whether to hate this John Watson, or...Sherlock doesn’t even know. Normally in this type of situation Sherlock would withdraw into his Mind Palace and _think_ , catalogue and think, catalogue and think and continue to do so until all was clear. However he has to focus on the task he’s been given, and that combined with the flood of new information (which is becoming both a blessing and an annoyance) ...he has no choice but to endure this intolerable state. That in of itself is a challenge Sherlock is curious to discover if he can achieve it without going mad. He has pondered simply giving up and going back to the world that makes logical sense to him, but he’d quickly discarded that thought as ridiculous for a few reasons; going back would mean re-entering the prison and he would rather not do that until it is absolutely necessary, he was given freedom by the infamous Queen and in return she asked him to achieve the plebeian task of retrieving a dog, and after months of crushing atrophy he was (is) desperate for anything to do. And most of all, the prospect of recovering the Prince (Sherlock inwardly snarls) and handing him over to the Queen is too _delectable_ for him to ignore.

   His mind is constantly working, a thinking device that never stops (boredom is a thing that hovers over him like a plague) and Sherlock relishes his singularity and is constantly annoyed by the idiocy everyone (except for a rare, rare few) continues to express much to his infuriation. Sherlock would rather die than wish his mind to be different, though there are times when Sherlock ponders what it would be like to have a mind like a sieve; relaxing and empty it must be. What would it be like to not be constantly bombarded by irrelevant information? What would it be like to be able to...forget? Sherlock’s thoughts instantly jump to the very events and persons that cemented his belief in the fragility and weakness of emotions.

   Sherlock stops walking abruptly and halts those thoughts with violent force.

    _Pointless. Absurd. Useless. A Waste of time. Stupid. Focus! Focus! Focus! This is exactly what happens when my mind is flooded and I am unable to deal with it as I normally do. I go in circles, circles, circles, circles! Excruciating!_

   He pushes that chaotic thinking far away from his mind spotlight and locks it away tight behind one of his many Mind Palace doors to deal with later. Sherlock smiles in relief as the turmoil is quietened...though he knows that won’t last. He _will_ make it last until this task is completed. And then he can return to his life before imprisonment, engage himself fully with his work. The thought is a thoroughly pleasant one. Sherlock resumes his steady pace as he ponders his current strategy.

   A simple evaluation of the woman at John Watson’s address revealed her to be his sister (Harriet Watson, gathering from the name engraved below a picture of her and another woman that Sherlock nearly stepped on when entering the place). Her scent (Alcohol, Spice, Red, Guilt, Fire, Water, Stone) is what told him this, it also told him that given her current state of vulnerability (though her will proved to be _almost_ intriguing in its strength later) it would be easy for him to manipulate her.

   Sherlock proceeded with plan B when he realized John Watson and the dog weren’t in the home, which involved finding someone that could potentially be aware of John Watson's location, and (if necessary) making a bargain with the magic dragon dung bean (the middle two words Sherlock purposefully left out when he explained it to the other Watson) in exchange for John’s whereabouts. This proved to be decidedly easy.

   Not long before Sherlock was caught and imprisoned, he had completed a rather fascinating case given to him by a farmer near Beantown. For payment, which Sherlock seldom accepted, he offered him a rare magic dragon dung bean. Sherlock would never be moronic enough to actually use one; they’re notorious for granting wishes in such a way that inevitably leads to disastrous consequences; though that isn’t always a guarantee. Besides, what would he wish for anyway? Sherlock kept the bean and out of curiosity studied the little thing to the best of his ability without actually harming it in anyway. After he had exhausted that avenue, he kept it in a special pocket hidden in his shoes (which he’d bought and altered years ago for the purpose of hiding something small in case of emergencies, though he was more thinking of an easily accessible lock pick at the time and _not_ a magic bean) in case he ever needed it; whether for bargaining, manipulation or some other reason he had yet to contemplate. This turned out to be invaluable as what happened with John’s sister proved. The cell doors in the Snow White Memorial prison are magically safeguarded against all forms of escape so Sherlock’s lock pick was useless.

   Sherlock purposefully glosses over that episode with the picture – which is very tightly secured within his coat pocket (sentiment, disgusting of him, but at the time he found he couldn’t help himself when he stole it and whenever he contemplates doing away with the photograph he just can’t do it. He tells himself this is only because it is part of his plan, which it is) – and continues reflecting.

   Once he got an address for John’s grandmother (Harriet Watson’s reaction to mentioning her was most informative) he was thrilled. There was no guarantee John and the dog would be there, however it was progress however small. Once again the man and dogs smell was too obscured for Sherlock to follow, though his recognition of it is getting increasingly stronger.

   After that it was simply a matter of figuring out exactly where the address was, how to get there and exactly what to do once he was there. Calculating the variables and options of the latter was relatively simple, the other two proved more of a challenge and took him a lot longer than he would’ve liked.

   The most amusing part of the whole endeavour was when he was still at John Watson’s address and he’d deduced what happened to the Trolls (which gathering from the smell they were still in the building). He remembers laughing and then feeling a spark of admiration for John Watson. Even now Sherlock chuckles at the thought as he thinks of the Trolls being lured and trapped by the man. Not a difficult task, they are Trolls after all, but still amusing.

   Eventually Sherlock arrived at the right address, the smell of John Watson and the dog being the clearest evidence of this.

   Now, as Sherlock slows his pace and reaches the apartment door he lifts up the bouquet of flowers he managed to procure on the way here (taking them from an outside stand without being noticed was much, much too simple) and raises his hand to use the door knocker. _Knock! Knock! Knock! Knock!_

   He waits until he hears someone moving around inside, making their way – slowly – towards the door. _The grandmother. Excellent._

   The aroma that Sherlock can smell the most right now is a very strong, heady type of smoke. Incredibly similar to a plant that he used to indulge in. Even the feeling associated with smelling this intoxicatingly similar scent is the same. Sherlock sighs and breathes deeply.

   Sherlock is jerked away from the memory as he hears the sounds of a lock being undone. He quickly puts on his most beguiling expression.

   The door is pulled open and Sherlock audibly gasps as if in wonder and surprise at the sight of the old woman standing before him. By the smell and physical characteristics, undoubtedly John’s grandmother. Also by the scent, she is a heavy smoker and an alcoholic. She’s rather short compared to him, wearing a disgusting amount make-up and a hideous green, purple and red robe around heavily wrinkled skin. Her hair is blond, obviously dyed, and she is wearing large, tacky brown earrings.

   “There must be some mistake, I do apologize. I was looking for John’s grandmother.” Sherlock says with the right edge of mortification and makes to turn away.

   “I am she.”

   Sherlock whirls around, gasping once again.

    _“Really?”_ Sherlock faces her completely once again and looks over her. “I find this difficult to believe. Perhaps a sister, or his mother? A grandmother though...” Sherlock pauses as if confused. “Impossible.” Sherlock shakes his head and gazes at the grandmother intently. “You are...a dazzling beauty.”

   Sherlock resists the urge to roll his eyes as the grandmother preens under his gaze and clearly false compliment. If she had any true skill at deductive reasoning she would know that he’s lying. Instead, she falls to victim to flattery.  _Idiot._

   She beams at him. “Oh well, I don’t even have my make-up or anything yet.”  She smiles and curls a stray, curly lock behind her ear.

   Again, Sherlock successfully suppresses the urge to roll his eyes _. Honestly, why do people feel the urge to lie so obviously about themselves or their appearance? Because they think it’s charming? Hardly._ Sherlock inwardly scoffs. He so badly wants to express his deductions about her out loud; however it could potentially be counterproductive to his goal to enter the apartment. Experience has shown him that people react negatively – _silly, sensitive minds_ – to obvious truths he observes about them. He could simply do this anyway and use physical force to enter, if he has to he will. For now, he exercises some self-control.

   None of what Sherlock is thinking shows on his face and instead he smiles and gives her a polite nod.

   “May I come in?” Sherlock gestures towards the area behind the grandmother, he then holds out the colourful selection of flowers out to her and she looks at them.

   Her expression is one of confusion, though she is also looking at the flowers with a mildly pleased smile.

   “Yeah, but who are you?” She asks, her eyes slightly narrowed.

   “I am John’s suitor.” He smiles again – a subtle smile and expression that makes him appear older than his young twenty three years – and reaches into his pocket. He pulls out the photo and ignores the slight thrilling sensation that electrifies through him as he gently kisses the picture. “His betrothed.” He looks at the picture with his widest smile yet; he is surprised to realize that particular smile isn’t entirely faked. It certainly doesn’t help that underneath the strong smell of smoke there is the very real, very strong smell of John...closer than ever before.

   “Betrothed?! How is that...possible, John never mentioned anything about a fiancé or being...gay.” The grandmother shudders as she speaks the last word.

    _Dull. She has an even smaller mind than the average ignorant idiot. This could be a problem, though not an unexpected one._

   Sherlock decides to completely bypass her last comment and instead focuses on the first part of her sentence.

   “Most would brag and boast about marrying the heir to an enormous fortune, but not my beloved John.” Sherlock adds on a dreamy sigh for good measure.

   Just as Sherlock knew she would, the grandmother perks up at the mention of his “enormous fortune”. Lucky for him, her love of money appears to outweigh her prejudice.

   Sherlock re-pockets the picture.

   The grandmother looks at him and smiles a sickly sweet smile.

   “Oh, well, do come in!” She holds out her hand for him to take.

   Sherlock smiles too and resists the urge to grimace as he takes her hand. She – somewhat shakily – walks backwards and Sherlock lets her guide him inside.

    _  
_


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand.....Another chapter!!!!! Hehe :D This one is a bit shorter, but not by much. After this I'll be going back updating at least once or twice a week :)  
> Enjoy! :D
> 
> EDIT: Hi all! I hope at least some of you will see this, this week is turning out to be very busy for me. I'm moving, and it's quite a big move with lots of stuff to do. Plus I have a project I have to do, one that has a deadline. Chances are I won't have time to post a new chapter for this story for a couple weeks, sorry! :( I will keep writing though, and probably by the time I am able to post...it'll be a monster update like last time! xD Anyway, sorry again :( *hugs*

**Chapter 7**

 

_Back again in Harriet Watson’s apartment...._

 

               

   Harry is humming a nonsensical tune as she wanders into the kitchen; wearing gray pyjama pants, a blue t-shirt and a dark red robe. _I badly need a drink._ The past several hours have made very little to no sense to her, and if she were to jump in and go all the way, she’d admit most of then have been fun too. Even though she is still very much baffled by everything that has happened. When that group of people, eager and waiting to come inside, showed up mere seconds after she made an accidental wish it didn’t take Harry long to say to herself _‘To hell with it!’_ , she gave over to denial, lack of sense, impulse and so let the group inside.

   What followed in the late night and early morning hours up until the present time, has been a mixture of dancing, talking, playing games (a particular game of strip poker turned out to be especially enjoyable) and all the typical things you’d expect at an energetic party (except this time the place was already trashed _before_ the guests arrived). Harry can’t remember the last time she felt so...carefree and accepted, so _young_. There is something...odd about the women (other than the obvious fact that they seem to know who Harry is, pretty much everything about her even though she’s never met them before...and that is of course creepy), it’s almost as though they were designed to be _exactly_ what she wanted at the time of making the wish; people who are always happy around her no matter what she does, no one she has made miserable. 

   However, the novelty and incredulity of that has waned within the last couple hours when she took a hard and focused glance at every single one of the women, and then...it finally began to sink in, as unbelievable as it is, she did in fact swallow a magic bean and that magic bean gave her these people. They are real (Harry made sure of that by pinching one of them, they merely giggled as though she tickled them, a sign of creepiness right there but it had quickly dissipated from Harry’s mind as one of them then started to act out her favourite Monty Python skit. Harry can’t remember the last time she laughed so hard), but who these people actually are is a mystery (did the bean create them or send them here? Harry doesn’t know). None of this is...really real. They have been _designed_ for _her._

Harry felt sick – still does, especially since she started thinking about Clara again – when she truly realized that and decided to once again go all the way....Her decision to leave a sober mind and _everything_ (John, Clara, Mary, that crazy howling man) behind, at least for a little while (she’ll deal with her guilt later), is what lead her to the kitchen to retrieve the other bottle of Vodka. Harry doesn’t want to lose this illusion, not yet. She just wants to enjoy herself for a little while; to live in this fantasy. Angry drunkenness or the happy-go-lucky kind (though she does tend to express the former), either one at this point is less painful to her than sobriety.

   So now Harry finds herself standing in front of the refrigerator; empty bottle of Vodka in one hand and the other grasping the fridge door handle. In the background she can hear the rather rambunctious sounds of voices singing and people dancing a conga line to a CD John bought for Harry a long time ago; an album by the band Earth, Wind and Fire. Harry rolls her eyes and laughs. 

   She places the empty bottle on the counter and quickly opens the fridge door. She ignores the food and reaches immediately for the bottle. As Harry grabs hold of it, an idea strikes her. _What if...Insane or not, this I’ve got to try!_  Her lips quirk into a smile and she releases the bottle; leaving it in the fridge.

   Harry closes the door and wonders briefly how to phrase the wish. It only takes her seconds to decide.

   “Wishmaster! Genie, magical deity, flying bean spirit or...whatever the hell you are!” She gesticulates with her arm wildly. “Give me a never-ending supply of _Vodka!_ ”

    Instantly that same warm feeling builds in her throat and her eyes widen in shock as that same green...smoking vapor wafts out of her mouth. _Damn, I’ll never get used to that._ She laughs and smiles. Quickly she re-opens the fridge. Her smile falls and she frowns as she sees that only one extra bottle has appeared.

   “You’re fucking kidding right?” Harry says to no one in particular and closes the door. “How can that possibility count as-” Harry abruptly stops speaking. She’d opened the door again while she was cursing and now she notices that two more bottles have appeared.

   She cocks an eyebrow and blinks to confirm what she’s seeing, she again closes the fridge door and reopens it....there are four more bottles of her choice brand of Vodka. Her heart beats a little faster and she smiles wide as she repeats the process...sixteen bottles of Vodka...thirty two...the fridge is full to bursting and Harry closes the fridge door with a swift kick; three bottles of Vodka in each hand and one tucked under arm.

_Time to spread the wealth!_

   She promptly leaves the kitchen. As soon as she enters the living room she is quickly accosted by the conga line; a woman only a year or two older than Harry has her hands gripping her hips firmly, she has long, wavy black hair that is greying in places. She’s the one that does the priceless imitation of the Lumberjack skit/song by Monty Python. Her name is Christine, and is also Harry’s top choice for most sexy out of the bunch. The names of the rest are; Diane, Rowan, James, Kaylee and Teri.

   Harry giggles and gives over to the sensuous movement of the conga line, eagerly dancing and singing with the rest. Doing all that while holding onto seven bottles of Vodka is not easy. Harry manages. In a long since mastered movement, she twists off the cap of one bottle with her teeth. Successful, she spits away the cap and quickly gulps down the familiar, and at the moment, very much welcome liquid.

   After dancing and drinking for a few more minutes she stops and turns to face the group; all showing various stages of dishevelment and exhaustion, but still with the biggest smiles on their faces.

   “Laws of reason be damned, somehow a never-ending supply of Vodka has appeared in my fridge. So....” Harry draws out the last word with a wink and slight shake of the bottles.

   There is a collective cry of ‘Woot woot!’ and Harry passes out the bottles; one each. Christine takes a long sip of her own bottle and throws her arm around Harry.

   “What would you like to do now hon?” Christine drawls, planting a playful peck to Harry’s cheek.

   “Oh I do think a more relaxing activity would be great.” Harry calls out loudly with a laugh. She has been dancing for quite a while, as have they all.

   “Agreed Har Har!” The woman with the bright red hair, Rowan, exclaims with a mischievous wink.

   “Fuck off. You know I hate that nick name, would rather not be associated with someone from Star Wars.” Harry scoffs and gulps down another mouthful of Vodka. She then returns the gesture and throws her arm around Christine.

   Everyone laughs and Rowan, much taller than Harry, reaches down and playfully ruffles her hair.

   “Hey!” Harry bats her hand away with a laugh.

   “Oh fine, wouldn’t want to upset you.” Rowan smiles. Her statement, commonly spoken in either sarcastic or mocking tones, is entirely genuine.

   Everyone hums and nods in agreement (given the fact that Harry is already a little tipsy; she doesn’t notice the oddity of their collective nodding).

   “Thank-you.” Harry gives a slight bow and walks over to her chair. Christine follows her and Harry collapses in a relaxed heap on the comfortable recliner. She sighs with relief as the paradoxical sensations of numbness and warm alcohol buzz begin to hum within her.

    Christine lies – rather erotically – along the arm of the recliner; she begins playing with Harry’s hair. Harry sighs deeply at the stimulating sensation. Someone must’ve lowered the volume, but Harry can still hear the sounds of Earth, Wind and Fire coming from her CD player.

    Eventually everyone finds a place to sit, though since the place is still a mess, this takes some effort. Harry glances around with a slight frown. _I still can’t remember what the fuck happened._

    Harry smirks as another idea comes to her.

   “I wish I had something that would clean this apartment all by itself and I would never have to lift a finger!” She laughs and drinks more from her bottle of Vodka.

   The sensation with the green smoke happens again, and then Harry hears a crashing sound coming from the hall closet. She turns her head (Christine’s hand is abruptly released) and looks toward the noise, as does everyone else.

   The hall closet door is suddenly swung open by some unseen force and the vacuum cleaner rolls out on its on volition. Harry’s jaw drops as she watches the thing make its way directly towards her. _Whoa...I don’t know whether to think that’s scary or extraordinary...I’ll say both._

The vacuum cleaner comes to a stop directly at her feet. How _this_ is supposed to clean the entire apartment Harry has no idea. She shrugs and leans back in her chair, Christine resumes combing Harry’s hair with her fingers.

   Harry eyes the jiggling vacuum cleaner with an amused grin.

   “Clean.” Harry orders.

   The vacuum cleaner immediately backs away and begins cleaning the incredibly untidy apartment. Harry notices for the first time that the vacuum appears to be...mumbling to itself. “Fucking hell.” 

   Chuckling, Harry swallows another mouthful of Vodka.

                

_Back at the grandmother’s apartment...._

 

   “I do wish you’d stop whimpering. I’m not going to harm you.” From anyone else, those words could sound comforting, but Sherlock just ends up sounding annoyed and impatient. “The rope and gag is little more than a precaution.”

   The grandmother whimpers more, though not very loudly due to the cloth gag in her mouth. Sherlock rolls his eyes and leans against the kitchen counter. He places his hands together in his traditional thinking pose and closes his eyes.

   After Sherlock successfully managed to gain entrance into the grandmother’s home, it quickly became apparent to him that he would have to subdue her in some way. Sherlock had suspected that possibility was extremely likely so he came prepared. He didn’t choose a coat with multiple pockets just by accident. Locating rope and a cloth was hardly difficult, though it was one of the reasons why it took him so long to arrive here in the first place.

  Very soon after the grandmother invited him in, she’d immediately announced her intention to wake up John to let him know his fiance was here. That would’ve instantly alerted John to the presence of someone unwanted (most definitely) and dangerous (absolutely) which could disrupt his plan in any number of ways. Unacceptable. Sherlock is confident that if need be he could also subdue the man as well, that would certainly be the easy way (well, one easy way, Sherlock calculates there are at least two others) especially since the grandmother is currently restrained as well. Once both unable to act, retrieving the _Prince_ would - should be simple. However, curiosity and no small amount of apprehension coupled with anticipation has Sherlock going about things in a non-traditional and certainly _not_ easy manner. Besides, doing things the easy way would be dull and boring. Why do that when he can satisfy his curiosity _and_ inevitably achieve the same result? Sherlock refuses to believe that his decision to wait for John Watson to wake up (gathering from the slow breathing Sherlock very clearly hear John is obviously asleep) and then for Sherlock to confront him is fueled at all by anything other than scientific curiosity.

   Sherlock has been unable to resist stealing deep breaths intermittently for the past fifteen minutes. Each time he is confronted by the intense pleasure, the mouth-watering hunger, a trembling body and the inescapable thrill John’s scent gives him. The effect is even stronger now that the man is close by. Sherlock’s thoughts are still torn though, much to his frustration and annoyance. This John Watson refuses to relent this pervasive invasion, already a room in his Palace has been obtained for the constant thought and analyzing that this man requires (an exact copy of the photograph is resting centrally in the room). Why does it affect him like this? _Where is the logical reason for it?_ _There must be one! Why don’t I know?! I should know!_ Sherlock not understanding something is unendurable to him. He isn’t sure whether to hate the man for causing him this intolerable chaos, or whether to be summarily intrigued and amazed because of it. It is a paradox Sherlock would rather not be subject to. He supposes he could wake up John Watson directly, but continual examination of his thoughts, what he plans to do next and the fact that he can afford the time causes him to simply wait for the man to wake up himself.

   Sherlock redirects his thoughts to that of the Prince. He is surprised to realize that though he is able to detract focus from it, solving the mystery of John Watson has quickly taken over as top priority. Sherlock growls inwardly. _Focus!_   This really isn’t helping the already chaotic state his Mind Palace is in.

   As Sherlock goes over his plan to capture the dog another loud whimper from the grandmother disrupts him. This time his growl is very much loud. _Stupid_.

   “Shut up!” Sherlock says, barely restraining his urge to yell.

   The grandmother is visibly shaking; fear sharp in her eyes as she gazes at him. Sherlock drops his hands, crosses his arms and spares her a brief glance; still securely bound on top of the table, wrists and ankles together, gag secured...though obviously not entirely doing its job. He focuses his gaze on the slightly ajar kitchen door. The sounds of man and dog sleeping are still consistent. Once again, as Sherlock breathes the scent of John shakes him in many ways. His entire mouth is salivating. _Interesting...I wonder what he would **taste** like? _  “Delicious.” He says aloud without thinking.

   The grandmother gives a too loud cry at this. Sherlock groans. “I wasn’t referring to you.” _Idiot._ Sherlock waves his hand. “I doubt I would eat you even if I was starving, rarely do I find elder meat of any species to be appealing.” Sherlock shrugs. The grandmother whimpers again and Sherlock shoots her a dark look. “Although I may just make an exception if you don’t. Stay. Quiet.” His voice lowers dangerously.  

   This only serves to make the grandmother shake more, but at least she’s now quiet. Sherlock smirks. Of course, Sherlock would never actually consume her. Not only does he refrain from eating human being’s unless absolutely necessary, he was being truthful before when he said eating the meat of older beings of a species is a very unappealing to him.

   This train of thought is having the side-effect of bringing Sherlock’s unsatisfied stomach to his attention. He sighs with exasperation. _Might as well attend to the transport, then hopefuly it’ll leave me alone for a while._

   He breathes deep (steadfastly ignoring John’s scent) and searches for one scent in particular...meat. Cow. Raw. Unfrozen. _Perfect._

   Sherlock strides over to where the smell of raw meat is coming from; a tall (though not as tall as him) rectangular device; appears to be a method of food storage. He grabs old of the handle and opens it. A gush of cold air hits him. He eagerly reaches forward and grabs a bowl that is holding a large cut of steak.

   He kicks the door closed and places the bowl on the counter. He immediately grabs the raw steak in one hand and starts eating. His very sharp Half-Wolf teeth bite through the succulent, chewy flesh easily. He swallows the first bite with a moan of pleasure... _infinitely more satisfying than the horrid prison food that nearly caused me to starve._ He growls – not in anger this time – as his Half-Wolf nature rejoices in the energy. He can already feel his strength and power returning wholly to his limbs and racing mind. Though given the opportunity, he would rather do away with the distraction of needing simplistic things like food; he can’t deny the positive effects it has.

   Sherlock quickly finishes the entire steak. A normal Half-Wolf meal would be at least five times that much, but Sherlock has always been able to function perfectly on the barest necessities of what he needs. This was essential when he was working on cases all over the nine kingdoms, since he preferred not to eat and instead engage total and utter focus on his work.

   Still, this time he would’ve at least liked to have had two more steaks, or one raw pork roast. Then he would’ve been set for days.

   Sherlock can’t help but the lick the watery blood from his fingertips. Months without proper food have really made him appreciate the flavour.

   The grandmother is watching him with wide eyes. He sniffs again. _Hm._

   He walks towards her and reaches into her gown pocket. She shakes with fear at the touch. Sherlock again rolls his eyes and simply pulls out the small packet he finds there. He holds it up to his nose and sniffs. _Aha!_ Sherlock smiles in triumph and reads the package before opening it. _Cigarettes._ _Nicotine._.. _Interesting, I wonder what these will be like._ Sherlock hasn’t smoked anything for a long time, and though these little, white cylindrical devices (very similar in size and shape to what he used to smoke) contain several chemicals Sherlock does not recognize by smell, he theorizes they won’t immobilize his mental capabilities or cause him to hallucinate like Dwarf Moss would. Besides, despite that one aspect of his distress has been dealt with (his Wolf stomach) he is becoming increasingly agitated and bored for multiple reasons. So, he weighs the possible consequences and decides to forgo the risk and try something new while he waits for John Watson to awaken.

   He pulls out of the small white objects and places it between his lips like he would normally do. He looks at the grandmother calmly.

   “Fire?” He mutters around the cigarette.

   The grandmother shakes again and tries to pull against the rope. Sherlock watches with faint amusement at her attempts of escape. “Don’t make me repeat myself.” He says.

   The grandmother gulps and nods towards her other pocket. Sherlock gives a mock bow of thanks and reaches in. The grandmother tenses. Sherlock quickly pulls out a small red device, there is liquid within it that smells painfully like the exhaust the transportation here gives off. He grimaces. _What is this? This is supposed to create fire?_ He examines it with both disgust and curiosity for a few moments, though this technology is foreign to him, it doesn’t take him long to figure out how the red device likely works.

   He backs away from the grandmother and leans against the kitchen counter. He runs his thumb along a rough, metal curve and quickly presses down on a black button. A small flame appears out of a tiny hole atop the small device. Sherlock quirks a small smile. _Intriguing._

   Sherlock leans forward and alights the very tip of the cigarette to life. He releases the black button and tosses the lighting device aside. He breathes the smoke in deep. _Hm...A strong sensation of harsh and smooth, very....relaxing, much more so than what I used before._ Sherlock breathes out and watches the swirl of smoke exit his mouth and nostrils. Already he can feel the turmoil of mind pandemonium, boredom and agitation deflating in small degrees.

   V _ery interesting, I must collect more of these to study the contents when I have the time._ Sherlock smiles and continues breathing the smoke in and out.

   Several minutes later, the grandmother is continuing to tremble; a few tears caused by fear have fallen from her eyes and Sherlock is bearing his boredom with some manner of enjoyment by smoking his third cigarette. Mostly he tries to ignore the snivelling of the grandmother, but after his first few attempts at consolation that he has no intention of physically harming her (well, beyond tying her up and gagging her, which he’s already done) fail to do much he decides to follow his first instinct to stay silent and take no notice of her.

   As Sherlock breathes in the last remnants of his third cigarette, he is listening intently to the breathing patterns of John Watson; which at one time normal, have very recently augmented in intensity, his pulse is significantly elevated as well. Sherlock suddenly notices that John’s smell has increased in intensity...sweating, he’s sweating. The pheromones and musk of scent are glorious torture to Sherlock’s nose and other senses. He feels the instinct to howl try and fight its way out of his mouth; now watering ever more strongly. He shoves it down angrily and attempts to look at the evidence of this change with a scientist’s eye...it works. Hardly a difficult deduction, but the sweating combined with the increased heart rate and breathing indicate to Sherlock that John is obviously experiencing a nightmare of some sort. Suddenly, those breathing patterns change...He hears John gasp. He’s waking up.

   Sherlock inhales sharply. He quickly flicks the butt of his cigarette with the others onto the counter. With a dramatic whirl of his long coat he fixes himself firmly in front of the grandmother, he gives her his fiercest, darkest look; a look that said disobeying what I’m going to say will not go well for you at all.

   “Be _silent_.” He doesn’t need to emphasize the words with anything else; the connotation in his tone is threat enough.

   She quickly nods. Satisfied, Sherlock flees the room. He peripherally hears the sounds of John getting up and moving around, and the continuing resting breathing of the Prince. Sherlock steadfastly ignores how the scent of the now awake man increases as Sherlock edges towards the room. For a moment, Sherlock feels a sudden urge to open the door and simply stride in; his hand is hovering near the gilded doorknob. He blinks away the impulse (he needs to get John _alone_ to properly assess him) and turns back around, walking along the hall with eerie silence. He follows his nose and swiftly enters the grandmother’s room.

 

 

   John’s heart is hammering hard and fast in his chest, sweat trickles down his brow and pools in his armpits. He instinctively looks around for danger, prepared to go for his – _Oh_ _fuck, another bloody nightmare!_ He glances at the bedside clock. He’d only fallen asleep another half hour, just long enough I guess...A few tears fall unbidden as he recollects the painful images. _I shouldn’t have gone back to sleep, shit...Shock....nothing....hot pain, sharp, getting stronger...not stopping...a bullet ripping through the bone and nerves of his left shoulder...the scent of blood and desert sand...dying...people dying...everywhere...unable to save...._ The nightmare he had is the one he always has; Afghanistan. It’s always the same and yet every time he wakes from it he is just as distressed as the first time it happened. His leg pulsates with a deep, aching pain and so does his shoulder. John groans and places both his hands upon his face.

   John spares a minute to calm his breathing and steady himself. He then reaches his arms high above his head, he swings his legs out from under the duvet and his feet land with a soft thud on the cream coloured carpet. He gingerly stands; immediately reaching for his cane. _I hate feeling so weak...Soldier on John, soldier on._

   John continues to breathe deep. He glances over at Prince, now heavily asleep. John quirks a smile and walks over, careful not to wake up the dog he reaches out and gently pats golden fur embossed head. Prince stirs slightly but doesn’t wake. John knows that whatever he has to do involving this dog, at some point he has to go back to the apartment and check on Harry. Perhaps he should be more worried, and even though John is angry she started drinking again that shouldn’t affect his desire to see her safe. And it hasn’t, his gut feeling is telling him she is safe for now. However, for his own peace of mind he needs to see for himself. He could just call her, but not only did he forget his mobile he knows Harry won’t pick up the phone if she sees it’s his grandmother’s number.

   As John makes his way to exit the room (the prospect of tea is heavenly) he begins to feel aware of an increase in the alertness of his soldier instincts...He frowns. Something isn’t right; something has changed since he last woke up. He’s instantly vigilant. This could just be because of his nightmare, his nerves are always more frazzled after having one, but just to be sure John speeds up his somewhat unsteady walking and exits the room; only vaguely aware that he’s in nothing but his boxer shorts.

   The hallway is empty, and the apartment door doesn’t appear to have been broken in. All of the windows look to be in order, one is open but that's normal.

   John takes a few steps down the carpeted corridor towards his grandmother’s room. As he approaches the door...

   “In here darling!” The voice of his grandmother calls out from within...but it sounds off, a bit rough. Could’ve been chain-smoking again, John thinks.

   John pauses briefly before opening the door, his expression is pulled into one of uncertainty. He peers into the room before entering. All he can see is the form of his grandmother underneath her own duvet. No sign of anyone else.

   “Are you alright?” He asks as he walks around the bed and towards the windows. With one hand gripping his cane tight he pulls one curtain aside with ease. A warm flood of morning sunlight envelops the room. “Been smoking? I really wish you would follow my advice around that, emphysema is just one of the many things you could get.” John grunts as he opens the other curtain. She does know this, and has always ignored John’s advice both as a doctor and as a grandson.

   With the room now bathed completely in light, John turns around. His grandmother has not said a word since he came in here, which is odd. She is generally even more talkative than Harry.

   “Grandmother?” John asks with a little trepidation.

   He leans down and gently grasps the edge of her blanket, ready to pull back...

 

   Sherlock has been listening with utmost focus to John’s voice and words (his mind deducing and coming to some rather enlightening conclusions) since he heard him being talking to his grandmother not long ago. He’d done his best to imitate her voice, he could’ve done better but it achieved his goal of getting John into the room and away from the possibility of him entering the kitchen.

   Now, anticipation and curiosity have reached a breaking point within him as he feels John grip a corner of the blanket Sherlock has hidden himself under. He is ready.

   The blanket is yanked back... _Oh._

   Sherlock has never truly understood the point of using such overused, cliché phrases like “it was as though time stood still” which is both impossible and often sentimental. However, those are the words that come to mind as Sherlock and John lock gazes for the first time.

 

   The feeling only lasts for mere milliseconds. Soon, the fact that Sherlock – a complete stranger to John – is in his grandmother’s bed becomes a metaphorical alarm to John that disrupts those inconceivable seconds of eerie silence. 

   Sherlock sees this register in his eyes and instinct drives him to move.

 

   John stumbles backwards as the mysterious man – _what the bloody hell is he doing in my grandmother’s bed? What has he done to her!?_ – leaps from the bed. John barely has time to react before he is being twisted around and thrown onto mattress. A pair of strong arms and a torso pin him down.

   “Who the hell are you?! Get. Off. Me!” John uses his most intimidating voice, the one he used as a Captain. The man ignores him, growls and instead fixes him with the most intense gaze and powerful eyes John has ever seen. He shivers, but not from fear. Any normal person would be afraid, but John isn’t afraid. The man is strong yes, but John can take him down easily. Though out of practise, army training isn’t something you forget and John is frankly quite tired of getting pinned.

   Alright, no more mister nice guy. John laughs inwardly at the horribly cliché turn of phrase. John quickly goes over his strategy of what to do and the very tall, young looking man continues to stare at him with an eerily unblinking gaze that really has John feeling more uneasy than the fact he is quite strongly pinned down. It's like the man is trying to figure something out...The man suddenly gasps and his eyes widen as if he’s been struck by electricity. The young man breathes deeply... _is he...smelling me? What the bloody hell!_

   “You’re...brilliant.” A baritone, sinfully deep voice vibrates against John; he is momentarily taken back by this young man’s words. _What? Oh no, does he intend to_ \- “Your picture is utterly insufficient.” The young man’s words abruptly halt John’s thought.

    “Get the _fuck_ off me!” John yells, not even bothering to contemplate what this guy is referring to. He gets ready to take advantage of the young man’s proximity and head butt him, but before he can make the move the young man leaps off John. He even has the audacity to look even more shocked than John. Something niggles in the back of John’s head; this young man seems familiar somehow...

   He immediately leaps off the bed also and rushes forward. Though the man is much taller than him, John easily uses his strength to pin the man firmly against the wall. John is surprised to feel that the young man didn’t even struggle. He’s just standing there, still staring at John with a wide-eyed, shocked expression. Dark, curly hair and high cheekbones only serve to make this look all the more intense.

   “I...apologize.” The young man says somewhat shakily, he tries to raise his hands in an expression of surrender, but – because of the hold John has him in – he can’t.

   “You bloody well should be sorry, now you _will_ answer my questions.” John is angry and he emphasizes his words with a tightening of his pinning hold against the young man.

   “So the dog is sleeping in.” The young man scoffs. “Royalty.” He mumbles.

   John is momentarily confused and for a brief second his hold loosens.

   “What?”

   The young man uses John’s brief confusion to slip out from his grip and he reverses their positions with ease; except he isn’t touching John, however he is crowding him against the wall and looming over him.

 _Shit!_ John finds he is unable to move. The man that had previously pinned him with no small amount of strength is now very purposefully not touching him, but he is gazing very intently at John and the latter finds himself unable to look away for whatever reason. _Must be a goddamned hypnotist._

   “You heard me, I dislike having to repeat myself. Besides, it doesn’t matter.” The young man looks up and down John’s body. John instantly clenches his fists and tenses, suddenly reminded of the fact that he is wearing nothing but his underwear. “You were in the army, and you’re doctor.” The young man says matter-of-factly.

   All breath leaves John. It suddenly hits him where he’s seen this man before...last night, at the restaurant. His hair was longer and his clothes were different, but John is fairly certain this is the young man he saw sitting at a table on the outside patio; hands poised as if in prayer.

   “How...have you been stalking me?” John is surprised at how diplomatic his voice sounds, though there is a cauldron of fight bubbling under John’s skin. If this man is a stalker, it would make sense given the evidence.

   The young man just rolls his eyes.

   “Obviously not. I simply observe.” The man speaks in a crisp, monotone voice (very different from his tone before). John notes for the first time that he sounds British, but not quite.

   “Oh right, observe, of course! Why didn’t I think of that?” John says sarcastically. The young man raises a quizzical eyebrow. “It must be coincidence then that you’re here, have my picture apparently, seem to know my profession and oh it must also be coincidence that I saw you at the same restaurant I was in last night!” John says angrily.

   John finally finds his will to move. The young man seems to notice this and backs away. John quickly rushes past the man and blocks his way to the door. The young man appears faintly amused, but his eyes haven’t relinquished their focus from John.

   “I suppose I can see how an average mind could draw that conclusion from a perfunctory examination of the facts, but again no. You are quite wrong.” The young man says with complete self-assurance. He walks forward a step, and John adjusts his position to keep the space between them – for now. The young man stops moving and leans in John’s direction ever so slightly, he closes his eyes briefly and breathes deep. “Mmmm, you really do smell brilliant. I have caught teasers of your scent before, and your scent has been incredibly frustrating to me, but now that I can see and smell you in the flesh...how fascinating.”

   What? _This man appears to sniff me and says I smell brilliant after I’ve been sweating from a nightmare...Disturbing. Who is this guy?_

   John can’t help but laugh. He decides to ignore that last comment, not knowing how to respond, and instead decides to comment on the first part. “Wrong am I? Than explain to me how you know who I am – was in the army, and am also a doctor. Oh, and feel free to tell me why you’re here and who you are while you’re at it.” John speaks very firmly and assumes his strongest military stance.

   The young man takes a cautious step forward. John doesn’t move this time. The young man walks until he is only a few feet from John, he settles his gaze on John’s face. John notices their colour for the first time; green, blue, grey and the barest hint of gold. Quite easily the most intense eyes John has ever seen.

    “I know that you were in the army, and an army doctor gathering from your stance and tone of voice which indicate you were in some position of authority, and the way you spoke to me before when you thought I was grandmother indicates concern not just that of a worried relative, but someone who also has medical expertise. The way you hold yourself and favour your right arm more so than the left suggests you sustained an injury that probably caused you to be discharged; most likely within the last year. The cane indicates an injury of sorts with your leg; however the way you walk when confronted with danger – or lack thereof indicates it is purely psychosomatic. You bear no great love for your grandmother, but you are greatly concerned for her health because she is both addicted to smoking and alcohol; which suggests you either have a relative you care for more who also suffers from the same addiction, you’re simply a caring individual or you’re reacting to your doctoring instincts. In this case, it is all three. You’re acclimatized to violence and obviously know how to incapacitate an enemy, yet you are out of practise from lack of use of those skills but not to a great degree; so, at most it’s been a year since you’ve been discharged, probably less. Your faint accent, language and the state of your relatives indicates you were born here, but likely left at a young age and moved back here after being invalided. Your father died within the last fifteen years, you have a sister, she’s older, and your relationship with her is tenuous at best. The both of you share the same father, but have a different mother. It was your sister that invited you to stay with her temporarily, but not immediately after you were discharged. You wouldn’t have agreed. She asked roughly six months ago, and you reluctantly moved here – with the intention of it being temporary – five months ago. That’s all I’ve been able to deduce so far, hardly difficult and some of it patently obvious. As I said before, I simply observe. As for whom I am...no one of consequence. And why am I here? It doesn’t concern you.” The young man says all this in a moderate, fast-speaking tone without taking a single breath.

   John’s jaw drops and his eyes widen... _what was that? That was....wow._ John has no idea how he knows half of what he says, he barely registered most of it because this man was speaking so fast and John wasn’t at all prepare for the onslaught. Everything he said though (everything he could make out anyway) is right...completely right. He probably should feel exposed, and he does, but he also feels bloody amazed. Though it doesn’t escape John’s notice that he didn’t really answer one of his very important questions.

   “That...was amazing.”

   The young man frowns as though confused; an almost tentative smile graces his features. He looks at John.

   “You think so?” The young man says.

   “Of course, it was extraordinary, quite...extraordinary.” John shakes his head in disbelief.  He inwardly thinks he probably shouldn’t be complimenting this man, totally inappropriate given the situation.

   “That’s not what people normally say.” The young man walks the slightest bit closer and stares at John intently.

_Ha._

   “Yeah, people probably say something along the lines of ‘Piss off’.” John resists the urge to laugh. _Seriously, get a grip!_

   The young man smiles, amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Precisely.” He chuckles.

   There is sudden silence and John rapidly feels extremely awkward.

   “You still haven’t answered my question, who are you and _why_ are you _here?_ ” John asks, all traces of amusement are gone from his tone; back to military severity.

   The young appears to consider John’s request, but before he can say anything something happens that shatters the weird situation John finds himself in. They both hear John’s grandmother cry out loudly. _Grandmother...fuck I completely forgot about her! Shit. This man really must be a hypnotist._

   The young man’s expression abruptly changes; something akin to anger and horror. John has very little time to register it before the man lunges forward towards the door. John grabs his wrists and knees the man in his solar plexus; the young man groans and clutches his stomach as he collapses onto the floor.

   John quickly opens the door and runs out into the hall. He hears his grandmother cry out again. She sounds terrified. Instinct drives John towards the sound of her voice, _what has this man done to her?!_ John hopes what surely must be momentary insanity hasn’t made him too late to possibly save her from...whatever it is the man his done.

   John is fast, but before he can reach the kitchen he feels two strong arms grip him tightly from behind.

   “I assure you she is quite well and I had – have no intention of harming her or you.” The young man speaks very low and close to John’s ear.

   John struggles to free himself from the man’s grip, but he feels even stronger than before and is steadfastly refusing to let John go.

   “What did you do to her?” John asks, trying to sound calm.

   “Not much.” The man says nonchalantly.

   John feels hot breath ghost his head as the young man breathes in and out deeply. _Is he bloody sniffing me again?! Right, that’s it._

   “Stop fucking _sniffing_ me!” John yells and stomps hard on the man’s foot. John hears him grunt in pain and John repeats the process. This causes the young man to release John abruptly.

   John whirls around to face the man, ready to fight.

   “I would really rather not fight you.”  The young man growls; he bends into a fighting stance.

   John’s grandmother chooses this moment to cry out again.

   “Tell me what you’ve done with my grandmother, why you’re here, and who you are! Or I _will_ call the police!” John has every intention of calling them anyway, and by the look on the young man’s face he knows this.

   “You’ll call them anyway, and no.” The young man says. “I feel compelled to inform you that I cannot be taken in by your version of police forces.”

   John ignores the odd way the man phrased that last sentence and rushes forward; gripping the young man by his coat collar tightly with both hands.

   “You will tell me what you have done with my grandmother and why you are here, and I would really like to see you try and get past me.”

   Though short, John can be quite intimidating when he chooses to be. This is one of those moments. The tall, young man doesn’t appear to be greatly affected. He smirks and gives John a firm head butt; this disorients John long enough for the man to regain his earlier grip. _Shit!_

   “It would benefit you to not underestimate what I am capable of.” The young man whispers. “You want to know who I am. My name-” He hesitates briefly. “-is Sherlock.” He suddenly pushes John, not very hard he notices, away and rushes towards the door; all long legs and billowing coat

   John quickly regains himself and growls in frustration. He runs after the young man, but he barely notices the young man stop and grip his curly hair tightly as though frustrated himself.

   John rushes into him; intending to knock him to the ground. Because he is distracted, the young man doesn’t notice in time. He stumbles as he is met with the full body force of John. On his way to the floor the young man’s foot unexpectedly gets caught on a table leg of the solitary end table in the long hallway. The table falls over and collapses into John, causing him to fall onto the floor and accidently knock the young man in an unfortunate direction. John swears at the ache in his shoulder caused by landing in an awkward position. He looks up to find the young man has disappeared from John’s sight... _wait,_ _disappeared? How – oh shit! The window!_ Heart pounding, John bolts up from the floor. John notices clearly for the first time that he’s directly in front of the open window. He rushes toward the window and looks down. John’s suspicion is immediately confirmed as he spots the young man, his arms and legs spread out like those of a starfish with his coat billowed out around him. He appears unharmed, luckily the apartment is only on the second floor and he appears to have landed on several bags of garbage which probably broke the impact of his fall somewhat. John can easily tell that the young man is breathing and doesn’t appear to be bleeding. _Good, because as much as I wanted to incapacitate the guy, I certainly didn’t want to push him out a window._

   “Do not come back here Sherlock whoever you are!” John bellows. “And it would most definitely benefit _you_ not to underestimate _me_ as well!” John throws the man’s own words back at him with a clipped and threatening tone.

   They share a brief moment of eye contact – he appears to mouth something – before the young man falls unconscious or simply closes his eyes (it is difficult for John to tell from this distance) and John closes the window.

 

 

    Mycroft woke not long after John Watson did and has been listening intently to everything with great interest, and a good deal of puzzlement. The Prince is certain he has met this Wolf before, but where? He is certain the Wolf came here for him, and yet during the whole exchange between the Wolf and John he never once made a move to come get him.

_“Do not come back here Sherlock whoever you are! And it would most definitely benefit you not to underestimate me as well!”_

   Mycroft stumbles as those words loudly spoken by John reverberate in his skull. _Surely...no. I have to be sure._ The Prince runs out the open bedroom door. He immediately rushes towards the window that he heard the Wolf fall out of less than a minute before.

   He reaches it quickly and jumps up. He rests his two paws on the window sill and quickly finds the Wolf; lying on a pile of garbage, unhurt but unconscious.

   The sound of John Watson’s voice crying out ‘oh my god, grandmother!’ sounds very far away to Mycroft, though logically he knows the man is close by. It doesn’t matter; everything in the Prince’s world in this moment has narrowed down to the shock of realizing that he has indeed met this Wolf before. He can’t believe he didn’t recognize him earlier; the fact that he is seeing him again now is quite...unexpected.

_I never expected to see you again._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll try to get another chapter up soon! Thanks for the support readers! :)


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